/  TALE: 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


8.  P.  McLEAN.  BOOKSELLER. 

48  SO.  BROAM^-i 


PENHALLOW  TALES 


PENHALLOW   TALES 


By 

Edith  Robinson 


BOSTON 
COPELAND  AND  DAY 

MDCCCXCVI 


COPYRIGHT    1896  BY   COPELAND   AND   DAY 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PENHALLOW  I 

A   MENTAL   PRINCESS  75 

A   RETURN   TO  NATURE  97 

THE  TENTH   OF  SEPTEMBER  107 

MARM   PHCEBE'S  FORTUNE  131 

THE  SATYR'S  HEAD  153 

THE  PORTRAIT  BY  HUNT  165 


548337 

LIBRARf 


PENHALLOW 
I. 

"  'THHE  witches  are  after  me !  Mr.  Winn, 
_L  Mr.  Winn !  The  witches  are  after 
me !  They're  tormenting  me  almost  to 
death  !  " 

I  put  my  hands  over  my  ears  to  shut  out 
the  hateful  utterance,  and  involuntarily  closed 
my  eyes  also,  as  though  I  could  thereby  dispel 
the  mental  picture  that  the  words  had  evoked. 
I  was  in  the  little  attic  chamber  at  the  end  of 
the  poorhouse,  for  which  room  I  had  begged 
in  order  to  be  as  far  as  possible  from  the  in 
mates,  and  she  was  in  her  usual  place  on  the 
south  steps,  where  the  sun  lay  warm  the 
greater  part  of  the  day.  Vital  heat  she  could 
not  have  had. 

"  The  witches  are  after  me  !  They're  tor 
menting  me  almost  to  death  !  " 

The  words  ended  with  a  wail  such  as  might 
have  been  uttered  by  a  lost  soul  condemned 
to  wander  on  earth  through  indefinite  time. 
In  the  darkness  that  I  had  created  I  only  saw 
more  vividly  a  skeleton  form — a  mummy 


2  TALES 

rather,  with  a  skin  like  brown  leather,  drawn 
so  tightly  over  its  hairless  skull  that  the  eyes, 
in  which  lingered  most  of  the  life  of  the 
creature  who  had  once  been  a  woman,  seemed 
to  be  starting  from  their  sockets.  One  could 
only  guess  at  her  height,  for  her  form  was 
bent  nearly  double,  except  when  she  would 
straighten  herself  in  a  moment  of  passion, 
and  then  hobble  after  some  boys  who  had 
mockingly  chanted,  as  they  passed  by,  the 
rhymes  that  her  name  or  her  habits  had 
suggested : 

"  Old  Sally  Waters, 
Sitting  in  the  sun !  ' ' 

She  was  clad  in  the  almshouse  uniform, 
consisting  of  a  short  skirt  of  gray  linsey- 
woolsey,  and  a  round  waist  with  a  little  cape 
reaching  to  the  shoulders.  A  sharp  watch 
had  to  be  kept  upon  her  to  prevent  her  tear 
ing  off  strips  of  this  gown  for  the  strange 
purpose  for  which  she  coveted  them.  No 
definite  information  in  regard  to  the  length 
of  time  old  Sally  Waters  had  been  at  the 
poorhouse  could  be  obtained  from  the  records, 
which,  particularly  in  the  earlier  days,  had 
been  carelessly  kept;  the  people  in  the 
neighborhood,  who  had  owned  their  farms 
for  generations,  could  only  say  that  she  had 
"  allers  been  there,"  and  that  she  looked  as 


PENHALLOW  3 

she  did  now  when  boys  who  had  become 
grandfathers  had  called  out  to  her  as  she  sat 
in  the  glare  of  the  July  sunshine : 

"  Old  Sally  Waters 
Sitting  in  the  sun, 
Crying  and  weeping 
For  a  young  man !  " 

On  stormy  days,  shutting  herself  into  her 
bedroom,  she  would  look  over  the  contents 
of  a  battered  little  blue-painted  chest  that 
stood  by  the  head  of  her  bed,  and  which  she 
guarded  with  jealous  care :  her  treasure  — 
probably  charms  against  the  witches  that 
haunted  her  —  was  in  the  form  of  hundreds 
of  knotted  woollen  rags  that  had  been  torn 
from  her  gown,  and  which  contained  cuttings 
of  her  nails.  She  had  taken  the  most  singu 
lar  and  unfortunate  fancy  to  me,  greeting  me 
on  my  home-coming,  a  week  before,  with  the 
words : 

"  You've  been  long  gone,  Martina  !  " 

And  then,  in  some  unfathomable  emotion, 
she  had  begun  crooning  some  gibberish  to 
herself,  varied  by  those  wild  shrieks. 

Had  she  overheard  my  name  in  some 
chance  mention  by  my  father  or  mother? 
Dolt  though  old  Sally  Waters  was,  there  were 
gleams  of  intelligence  —  cunning  rather  — 
that  she  now  and  then  displayed,  usually  in 


4  TALES 

connection  with  evading  the  watch  kept  upon 
her  destructive  propensity.  It  seemed  to 
be  a  mark  of  favor  that  she  had  shown  me 
her  chest  of  disgusting  relics,  and  even, 
with  gestures  commanding  secrecy,  displayed 
another  charm  that  was  likewise  tied  up  in  a 
gray  flannel  rag  and  worn  suspended  about 
her  neck  by  a  leather  string. 

Towards  the  other  paupers  she  exhibited  a 
frightful  temper,  varied  at  times  by  a  ludicrous 
assumption  of  dignity  and  command.  Her 
meals  were  brought  to  her  in  a  corner  of  the 
dining-room  apart  from  the  rest,  and  in  such 
terror  were  the  other  inmates  of  the  house 
of  the  haunted  atmosphere  which  old  Sally 
Waters  seemed  to  have  created  about  herself, 
that  none  of  them  ever  ventured  to  seat  them 
selves  in  the  straight-backed  wooden  chair 
that  she  called  hers. 

I  hated  the  miserable  creatures  whose 
lives  were  spent  in  gossiping  and  quarrelling, 
whose  sole  ambition  was  to  have  the  biggest 
pieces  of  pie  on  the  days  when  mother  had 
dessert  for  a  treat.  The  very  situation  of  the 
big,  square,  unpainted  building,  just  below 
the  crest  of  the  hill,  stifled  me.  On  its  other 
side,  upon  the  gentle  slope  towards  the  river, 
was  soon  to  be  life  such  as  I  loved ;  but  only 
cognizant  were  those  in  the  almshouse  of  it 
all  by  the  whistle  and  roar  of  the  passing 


PENHALLOW  5 

trains,  many  of  which  stopped  at  Penhallow 
station.  This  year  the  house  from  which  the 
station  was  named  —  Penhallow  Place  —  was 
to  be  reopened,  after  having  stood  vacant  for 
forty  years,  transformed  into  a  summer  hotel 
by  the  aid  of  an  army  of  carpenters  and 
upholsterers. 

Its  many  advantages  were  eloquently  set 
forth  in  the  circular : 

"  It  stands  upon  high  ground  on  the  banks 
of  the  most  beautiful  part  of  the  Merrimac, 
with  fishing,  boating,  and  bathing  at  the  com 
mand  of  the  guests.  At  the  foot  of  the 
extensive  lawn,  in  front  of  the  house,  shaded 
by  magnificent  elms  of  centuries'  growth,  is 
the  highroad,  leading,  in  either  direction,  to 
some  of  the  most  charming  nooks  and  corners 
of  New  Hampshire.  But  what  will,  perhaps, 
as  much  as  anything,  recommend  it  to  lovers 
of  natural  scenery,  is  its  exceptional  facilities 
for  communication  with  Boston,  it  being  but 
a  little  over  an  hour's  ride  thence,  while  the 
station  is  almost  opposite  the  house." 

Notwithstanding  the  beauty  of  the  sur 
rounding  country,  it  seemed  hitherto  to  have 
escaped  the  notice  of  the  crowd  of  summer 
invaders.  So  the  new  hotel  created  a  good 
deal  of  talk  among  the  people  about,  and 
several  girls  whom  I  knew  had  taken  places 
there  as  help.  Mrs.  Wason  had  offered  me 


6  TALES 

a  situation,  and  I  was  glad  of  any  oppor 
tunity  to  escape  from  the  poorhouse.  I  was 
now  taking  the  last  stitches  in  the  big  white 
aprons  that  we  were  to  wear,  for  Mrs.  Wason 
wanted  us  to  look  tidy  and  nice  before  the 
Boston  folks. 

Two  years  before  my  home  had  been  ten 
miles  farther  back  in  the  country,  in  a  little 
house  surrounded  by  apple  and  pear  trees 
that  father  had  raised  from  the  seed.  In  May 
it  was  like  living  in  the  midst  of  a  bouquet. 
But  the  land  was  rocky  and  poor ;  father  was 
getting  too  old  to  do  the  work  alone,  and  it 
cost  considerable  to  hire  help ;  so  when  he 
had  a  chance  to  take  charge  of  the  poor- 
house  he  and  mother  decided  to  make  the 
change.  I  was  away  at  school,  and  only 
sixteen.  I  spent  the  whole  day  crying  over 
the  sorry  news.  The  idea  of  going  home  to 
the  county  almshouse  was  insupportable  ;  so 
when  vacation  came  I  taught  district  school 
till  the  academy  opened  in  the  autumn.  I 
intended  to  teach  again  the  following  sum 
mer,  but  a  girl  from  Laconia  got  the  place  I 
wanted,  so  there  seemed  nothing  for  me  to  do 
but  to  come  home  and  help  mother  with  the 
housework  and  the  sewing  for  the  paupers. 

It  was  even  worse  than  I  had  anticipated, 
for  I  had  not  reckoned  upon  old  Sally  Waters 
as  a  factor  in  the  almshouse  life.  But  there 


PENHALLOW  7 

were  other  reasons  besides  release  from  its 
hateful  atmosphere  that  made  me  jump  up 
and  down  with  joy  when  father  gave  me  Mrs. 
Wason's  message ;  for  to  me  Penhallow  Place 
was  enchanted  ground. 


II. 


EIGHTY  years  before  there  had  been  no 
railroad  holding  on  its  string  two  or  three 
bustling  manufacturing  towns ;  no  highroad 
led  past  the  lawn,  and  the  thriving  village  of 
to-day  was  represented  by  a  blacksmith's 
shop  two  miles  distant.  The  almshouse  did 
not  then  lurk  upon  the  hill  behind  —  an  un 
canny  reverse  side  to  the  picture  of  light  and 
love  and  laughter  at  Penhallow  Place.  There 
was  a  farmhouse  or  two  in  the  country 
around,  but  for  the  most  part  the  land  for 
miles  about  belonged  to  the  Penhallows. 

The  great  white  house  loomed  up,  with  its 
wings  and  broad  verandas,  the  whole  fa9ade 
unbroken  save  by  the  portico,  to  which  the 
driveway  led,  after  sweeping  around  the  lawn 
in  front,  which  in  those  days  was  bordered 
by  a  double  row  of  magnificent  elms.  That 
lovely  unbroken  stretch  of  greensward  had 
been  the  pride  of  Madam  Penhallow's  heart 
Now  the  lawn,  despite  the  grandiloquent 


8  TALES 

description  of  the  circular,  was  not  a  quarter 
of  its  former  extent,  and  the  trees  stood 
isolated  on  a  dusty  strip  of  land,  known  as 
"  the  Common,"  between  the  road  and  the 
railroad  track.  In  the  old  days  the  driveway 
had  wound  a  mile  along  the  river's  bank  be 
fore  it  emerged  from  the  private  grounds, 
where  now  the  village  with  its  houses  huddled 
thick  together  and  an  ill-smelling  tannery  had 
taken  the  place  of  field  and  meadow  and 
woodland. 

I  had  never  wearied  of  listening  to  descrip 
tions  of  the  life  in  the  great  house  eighty 
years  before ;  how  the  rooms  had  been  fur 
nished,  what  great  parties  had  been  given, 
and  how  the  children  had  looked  and  dressed, 
and  what  games  they  had  played.  They  were 
always  children  to  me,  despite  the  fact  that 
they  had  been  grandfathers  long  before  I  was 
born.  But  best  of  all  did  I  like  to  hear,  and 
my  grandmother  to  relate,  how  Madam  Pen- 
hallow  had  looked  ;  her  picture  was  engraved 
upon  my  imagination  from  my  very  baby 
hood.  It  was  her  personality  that  exerted 
over  me  a  charm  that  may  have  had  in  it 
something  physical,  for  love  of  Madam  Pen- 
hallow  had  been  bone  of  her  bone  and  flesh 
of  her  flesh  to  the  girl  —  my  great-grand 
mother  —  to  whom  she  had  been  a  kind 
though  imperious  mistress. 


PENHALLOW  9 

The  story  of  that  other  life  was  running  in 
my  head  now  as  I  sat  in  my  little  room, 
while  the  voice  from  without  now  and  again 
broke  the  thread  of  the  retrospect: 

"  The  witches  are  after  me !  They're  tor 
menting  me  almost  to  de-a-th  !  " 


III. 


SARAH  PENHALLOW  was  an  only  child; 
her  father,  Colonel  Penhallow,  —  his  name 
figures  prominently  in  Revolutionary  times, 
—  worshipped  her ;  so  did  everybody,  for  that 
matter,  from  her  lovers  to  the  hired  help. 
She  was  the  last  of  the  name,  and  her  father 
was  anxious  to  see  her  married ;  he  was  a 
proud  man,  and  it  would  have  killed  him  to 
picture  the  big  colonial  mansion  falling  into 
a  stranger's  hands.  His  daughter  had  the 
family  pride ;  some  said  the  family  temper, 
too.  But,  if  the  latter  charge  were  true,  it 
only  served  in  those  early  days  to  make  her 
the  more  high-spirited  and  lovable ;  for,  if 
she  were  quick,  she  was  also  generous  and 
forgiving,  and  that  kind  wins  more  hearts 
than  do  the  cold-blooded,  even-tempered 
folks. 

As  a  child  I  was  inclined  to  be  fanciful  and 
dreamy,  and  this  tendency  was  increased  by 


io  TALES 

the  solitary  life  I  led.  All  my  starved  im 
agination  centred  about  one  personality  — 
that  of  Sarah  Penhallow.  Not  even  the  miser 
able  end  of  a  life  that  had  begun  in  unclouded 
sunshine  could  shake  my  allegiance  to  her ; 
about  her  was  the  whole  atmosphere,  so 
familiar  to  other  children,  wherein  fairy  god 
mothers,  the  "  three  wishes  "  of  elfin  munifi 
cence,  flying  horses,  and  glass  mountains 
play  their  part.  She  was  the  beautiful  prin 
cess  for  whom  many  a  brave  young  prince 
would  gladly  have  laid  down  his  life.  What 
ever  was  good  and  true  and  lovely,  whatever 
gave  heart  to  the  struggle  to  lift  myself  into 
a  better  and  brighter  world  than  the  one  in 
which  the  sordid  struggle  for  existence  held 
sole  sway,  was  inspired  by  the  ever-present 
image  in  my  mind  of  that  one  woman. 

There  were  gay  goings  on  at  the  Place 
when  on  her  twentieth  birthday  she  was  mar 
ried.  William  MacNeil  was  poor,  but  as  well 
born  as  herself;  after  his  marriage  he  called 
himself  MacNeil  Penhallow.  Soon  there  were 
two  children,  Ralph  —  there  had  been  a 
Ralph  Penhallow  time  out  of  mind  in  the 
family  —  and  George.  Then  the  old  colonel 
died  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy  brought  on  by  rage 
because  his  horse  had  not  been  properly 
groomed,  and  for  a  while  it  was  quiet  at  the 
Place. 


PENHALLOW  1 1 

But  before  long  the  house  was  opened 
again,  and  the  grand  company  came  as  before, 
in  their  own  coaches,  with  outriders,  from  as 
far  off  as  Portsmouth  and  Boston.  The  Pen- 
hallows  were  in  the  habit  of  going  to  the 
latter  town  for  a  few  weeks  in  the  winter  and 
again  for  a  few  weeks  when  the  General  Court 
was  sitting ;  but  their  hearts  were  always  at 
Penhallow  Place.  The  anniversary  of  their 
wedding  day  came  in  July,  and  the  occasion 
was  always  celebrated  by  a  grand  ball.  Come 
what  might,  they  were  always  at  Penhallow 
Place  on  that  day. 

They  had  two  more  children  now  —  both 
boys.  It  was  shortly  after  the  birth  of  the 
last  one  that  a  change  began  to  be  observed 
in  Madam  Penhallow;  some  explained  it  by 
saying  that  she  was  growing  like  her  father. 
She  scolded  the  servants,  and  was  often  need 
lessly  severe  with  the  children ;  and  then,  to 
atone,  would  be  indulgent  beyond  measure 
to  both.  She  took  offence  at  mere  words 
with  her  friends,  parted  from  several  on  trivial 
pretence,  and  seemed,  by  a  certain  aggressive 
bearing,  to  be  constantly  on  the  lookout  for 
some  ground  of  quarrel  with  all. 

Her  husband  grew  anxious  about  her 
health.  Sometimes  she  would  lie  awake  for 
several  consecutive  nights,  and  then  would 
come  a  morning  when  her  sleep  would  be 


12  TALES 

so  heavy  that  it  was  difficult  to  arouse  her. 
She  was  restless,  too,  often  spending  the  entire 
day  in  wandering  from  one  room  to  another ; 
again  she  would  seem  possessed  by  a  very 
demon  of  work,  and  the  embroidery  needle 
would  fly  in  her  hands  or  the  intricate  lace 
grow  beneath  her  rapid  fingers ;  at  other 
times  she  would  sit  for  hours  with  her  hands 
lying  idle  in  her  lap  and  a  strange,  fixed  look 
in  her  eyes.  There  were  those  who  shook 
their  heads,  but  none  liked  to  voice  what 
was  the  thought  of  many.  It  was  worse  than 
either  ill-temper  or  insanity. 

Her  husband  repeatedly  begged  her  to  let 
him  summon  a  doctor;  she  flew  into  a  pas 
sion  at  the  mere  suggestion.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  that  she  had  lost  her  temper  with 
him,  but  never  so  violently  as  on  that  morn 
ing.  The  next  moment  she  had  her  arm 
around  his  neck,  and  was  upbraiding  herself 
for  her  angry  words. 

"  I  will  do  anything  you  wish,  love,"  she 
cried,  "  only  I  will  not  see  a  doctor." 

"  Then  we  will  try  a  change,"  he  urged. 
"  Let  us  go  to  Washington.  No  wonder  you 
have  become  depressed  and  nervous,  living  in 
this  great  house  alone  in  the  woods." 

She  put  her  hand  over  his  mouth  in  her 
loving,  imperious  fashion. 

"  Do  not  say  another  word  against  Penhal- 


PENH  ALLOW  13 

low  Place !  "  she  cried.  "  I  could  not  live 
long  away  from  it.  Blind  and  crippled  and 
idiotic,  I  should  still  crawl  back,  through 
sheer  instinct,  to  die  in  its  beloved  shadow. 
But  since  you  wish  it,  Mac,  we  will  go  to 
Washington  for  a  little  while." 

It  was  then  early  in  the  fall,  and,  despite 
her  words,  it  was  not  until  late  in  the  spring 
that  they  returned.  Through  the  following 
summer  the  house  was  filled  with  a  succes 
sion  of  guests ;  there  was  ball  after  ball ; 
there  were  picnics,  riding  and  boating  parties 
without  number;  and  the  feverish  activity  of 
the  previous  year  seemed  now  to  find  its  vent 
in  social  excitement. 

Another  child  was  born;  he  was  named 
for  his  father,  and  grew  up  his  living  image, 
with  a  clear,  pale  complexion,  blue  eyes,  and 
fair  hair.  He  was  his  mother's  darling,  and 
in  his  presence  her  fits  of  passion  were  rare, 
for  she  could  not  bear  to  see  the  child  shrink 
from  her  and  raise  his  wondering  eyes  to  her 
face.  He  did  not  cry,  as  other  children 
might  have  done,  but  his  grieved,  shocked 
look  speedily  brought  her  to  her  senses,  and 
a  terrible  fit  of  weeping  would  follow. 

To  a  considerable  degree  he  had  his 
father's  disposition,  too,  —  gentle,  yielding, 
singularly  sweet  and  sensitive.  He  gave  up 
his  toys  to  his  brothers  without  a  word ;  but 


14  TALES 

if  one  of  them,  in  sport,  tormented  his  pet 
kitten,  the  little  fellow's  eyes  would  flash,  and 
his  fist  clench  in  Bonny's  defence.  No  one 
with  Penhallow  blood  in  his  veins  could  be  a 
coward,  but  it  sometimes  seemed  as  though 
Mac  were  unfitted  to  fight  his  way  through 
the  world ;  however,  it  is  often  the  gentlest 
nature  that  is  capable  of  the  stoutest  resist 
ance.  The  others  were  strong,  sturdy  boys, 
with  whom  it  was  take  and  fight,  quarrel  and 
make  up,  in  hearty,  boyish  fashion ;  their 
differences  left  no  rancor  behind,  for  loyalty 
to  one  another  was  as  prominent  a  character 
istic  of  the  Penhallows  now  as  it  had  been 
long  ago  to  Church  and  State,  when  to  reward 
his  "  right  faithful  and  loving  subject,  Ralph 
Penhallow,"  King  Charles  had  granted  to  him 
certain  lands  in  "  ye  New  Plantation  "  that  the 
family  had  held  ever  after. 

Dating  back  to  that  visit  to  Washington, 
the  children  had  become  afraid  of  their 
mother ;  she  was  "  so  queer,"  the  elder  ones 
said  among  themselves.  Only  one  person 
held  the  key  of  the  mystery ;  and  that  person 
was  her  maid. 

It  was  a  sad  time  for  poor  Mr.  Penhallow, 
although  sadder  days  were  yet  to  come.  Mrs. 
Penhallow's  temper  was  now  common  talk. 
Guests  still  came  to  the  house,  but  the  old- 
time  feeling  of  open-handed  hospitality  was 


PENH  ALLOW  15 

gone.  It  was  like  picnicking  on  top  of  a 
volcano. 

Mr.  Penhallow  had  always  longed  for  a 
daughter ;  but  little  Mac  was  now  ten  years 
old,  and  it  was  unlikely  that  other  children 
would  be  born  to  them.  But  when  he  heard, 
from  his  wife's  own  lips,  that  before  long  he 
would  be  a  father  again,  he  rejoiced  as  he  had 
never  done  before  in  their  married  life,  for  from 
the  first  he  made  up  his  mind  that  the  new 
comer  was  to  be  a  girl.  He  even  decided 
upon  her  name.  She  should  be  called  Eliza 
beth,  after  his  mother. 

Of  late  years  the  master  of  the  house  had 
shut  himself  up  in  his  library.  Naturally  a 
quiet  man,  he  had  become  a  silent,  even  a 
moody,  one.  The  children's  laughter  and 
frolic  disturbed  him,  so  they  kept  away  from 
him,  as  well  as  from  their  mother.  He  had 
his  own  apartments,  Madam  Penhallow  had 
hers ;  they  met  only  at  luncheon  and  dinner. 
Madam  Penhallow's  breakfast  was  taken  to 
her  own  room.  Her  maid  had  orders  never 
to  disturb  her  morning  nap,  and  all  others 
were  strictly  forbidden  to  enter  the  apart 
ment  at  any  time. 

Once  Mr.  Penhallow  spoke  to  his  wife  of 
their  new  hope ;  perhaps  he  would  fain  have 
awakened  some  of  the  old  feeling  that  had 
been  between  them.  She  checked  him  with  a 


1 6  TALES 

jeer  at  the  unwonted  display  of  affection,  and, 
silenced,  he  returned  to  his  library  and  his 
books ;  she  to  her  own  chamber  —  and  her 
maid. 

Much  of  the  time  there  was  spent  in  wild, 
long  fits  of  weeping,  that  became  more  and 
more  frequent  as  the  time  for  her  confinement 
drew  near.  If,  in  courteous,  but  never  again 
loving,  inquiry  for  her  health  her  husband 
came  to  the  door,  he  was  met  by  the  maid  and 
the  words : 

"  Madam  Penhallow  is  lying  down  and 
must  not  be  disturbed." 

The  child  was  born,  a  miserable,  puny 
little  creature,  and  when  the  mother  looked 
at  it  she  cried: 

"  Take  it  away  !  It  is  the  visible  sign  and 
token  of  my  sin  !  " 

Those  around  thought  that  she  spoke  in 
the  ravings  of  delirium.  But  her  maid  under 
stood. 

The  father  took  the  child  —  his  Elizabeth 
—  to  his  heart  of  hearts.  Her  nature  was  in 
as  utter  a  contrast  to  her  brothers'  as  was  her 
physical  being.  They  were  endowed  with 
keen,  bold  intellects  that  united  the  strong 
practical  grasp  of  the  Penhallows  with  the 
refined,  scholarly  tastes  of  the  MacNeils. 
Little  Elizabeth  was  hardly  more  robust  in 
mind  than  in  body.  It  took  her  days  and 


PENH  ALLOW  17 

weeks  to  master  that  which  her  brothers  had 
acquired  in  one  lesson.  There  was  a  hesi 
tancy  in  her  speech,  and  even  the  little  that 
she  said  seemed  to  be  an  effort  for  her  to  con 
ceive  or  to  force  herself  to  utter.  It  was  to 
everybody's  surprise  and  in  refutation  of  the 
nurse's  prediction  that  she  had  survived  baby 
hood.  Into  her  mother's  presence  the  child 
was  forbidden  to  come. 

Yet  with  every  year  she  grew  more  like 
her  mother.  But  it  was  Madam  Penhallow 
with  the  life  gone ;  they  were  to  each  other 
like  a  crimson  rose,  fresh  plucked  on  a  June 
morning,  and  the  same  flower  behind  the 
glass  of  an  embalmed  funeral  wreath. 

She  grew  up  at  her  father's  side  in  the 
library.  They  took  their  meals  there  alone 
together ;  unlike  the  boys,  she  never  disturbed 
him  with  an  overflow  of  youthful  spirits.  She 
sat  opposite  to  him  in  the  big  carved  chair, 
speaking  only  in  reply  to  some  question ;  her 
big,  dark  eyes,  that  seemed  to  have  absorbed 
all  the  life  of  the  tiny  little  creature,  fixed 
upon  his  face.  Sometimes  they  would  be 
seen  crossing  the  lawn  together.  Elizabeth's 
solemn  little  steps  keeping  pace  with  those 
of  her  companion,  her  hand  clasped  in  his. 
She  never  broke  away,  lured  by  the  childish 
ambition  of  catching  the  big  yellow  butterfly 
that  had  just  fluttered  across  their  path,  or 


1 8  TALES 

loosened  her  hold  that  she  might  fill  her 
hands  to  overflowing  with  the  daisies  and 
buttercups  that  starred  their  way.  It  was  an 
unhealthy  life  for  any  child ;  for  one  with 
Elizabeth's  inheritance  of  morbid  tendencies 
it  proved  a  fatal  one. 

There  was  an  unlooked-for  result  that 
sprang  from  the  father's  exclusive  devotion 
to  his  daughter.  Madam  Penhallow  grew 
madly  jealous;  her  love  had  become  per 
verted  to  the  venomous  passion  that  claims 
all  and  would  crush  the  very  butterfly  that 
distracts  a  glance  of  the  beloved  one.  The 
servants  whispered  among  themselves  that  it 
would  not  be  safe  to  leave  Miss  Elizabeth  to 
the  mercies  of  her  mother.  If,  by  a  seldom 
chance,  the  two  met,  Madam  Penhallow  cast 
such  a  look  upon  the  quivering  child  as 
made  Elizabeth  seek  the  library  and  sob  out 
her  terror  on  her  father's  breast. 

Three  different  lives  were  thus  led  beneath 
the  roof  of  Penhallow  Place  —  in  the  library, 
in  Madam  Penhallow's  rooms,  and  in  the 
south  wing,  devoted  to  the  boys,  in  which 
was  the  only  sunshine  that  had  once  flooded 
the  whole  great  mansion.  Madam  Penhallow 
rarely  left  her  own  darkened  apartments  now, 
except  when  she  set  out  in  her  coach  to  re 
turn  a  few  visits,  or  when,  at  stated  intervals, 
she  threw  open  the  doors  for  a  grand  ball ; 


PENH  ALLOW  19 

for  the  custom  was  still  kept  up,  mockery 
though  it  was,  of  celebrating  the  anniversary 
of  their  wedding-day. 

There  were  only  three  boys  at  home  now. 
Ralph  had  wished  to  go  to  college,  and  his 
mother  had  opposed  the  desire.  One  day  he 
briefly  bade  good-by  to  them  all,  and  left 
home  on  foot  and  alone,  with  no  money  in 
his  pocket  but  that  which  he  and  his  brothers 
had  saved  from  their  allowances.  Arriving 
in  Boston,  his  handsome  face  and  pleasant 
ways  aided  him  to  find  work  without  delay ; 
his  position  was  only  that  of  errand  boy,  but 
he  was  well  content  therewith,  for  he  did  not 
mean  to  remain  long  a  hewer  of  wood  and 
drawer  of  water.  Mr.  Penhallow  had  attempted 
no  remonstrance  when  his  son  told  him  his 
intention  of  breaking  away  from  the  home  life. 
"  Peace  at  any  cost  "  had  become  the  motto 
of  the  weary,  disheartened  man.  Besides,  he 
had  Elizabeth ;  love  for  her  had  absorbed  all 
his  energy  and  intellect  and  paternal  pride. 

The  following  year  George  followed  his 
brother's  example,  only  he  did  not  go  through 
the  empty  formality  of  bidding  his  father 
good-by.  Tom,  shortly  after,  left  the  home- 
roof  in  like  fashion  ;  not,  like  his  brothers,  to 
seek  his  fortune  in  Boston,  but  to  follow  it  at 
sea.  Joe  and  Mac  remained  at  home  some 
time  longer,  spending  the  days  in  shooting, 


20  TALES 

boating,  riding,  and,  whenever  they  had 
money,  in  having  "  some  fun  "  at  Portsmouth. 
The  two  lads  were  growing  up  without  re 
straint  of  any  kind.  There  had  been  a  suc 
cession  of  tutors  at  the  house,  but  none  ever 
remained  long. 

It  was  Ralph  who  came  forward  at  last  with 
the  much-needed  authority  over  the  two 
younger  lads.  He  had  recently  married ; 
George  was  betrothed.  Of  Tom  naught  had 
been  heard  since  he  sailed  in  the  "  Bona- 
venture."  There  arose  trouble  out  of  the 
"  fun  "  at  Portsmouth.  Accounts  of  a  broken 
window,  the  pilfering  of  a  shop,  a  scrimmage, 
and  a  double  arrest  found  their  way  to  the 
Boston  newspapers.  The  two  elder  brothers 
went  at  once  to  Portsmouth,  paid  fines  and 
costs  and  damages,  scolded  the  culprits 
roundly,  and  insisted  that  both  should  come 
to  Boston  and  henceforth  consider  themselves 
in  their  eldest  brother's  guardianship ;  to 
which  mandate  the  two  boys,  somewhat 
alarmed  at  the  results  of  their  folly,  at  once 
yielded. 

Joe  was  taken  into  the  business,  now  known 
as  "  Penhallow  Brothers,"  with  the  promise 
that  good  behavior  should  win  for  him  a  place 
in  the  firm.  Partly  by  reason  of  the  tight 
rein  held  over  him,  partly  because  he  was 
ambitious,  but  most  of  all  because  his  natural 


PEN  HALLOW  21 

character  was  honest  and  straightforward,  he 
devoted  himself  to  his  occupation,  and  soon 
proved  that  his  crop  of  wild  oats  was  sown. 

But  "  Little  Mac,"  as  his  brothers  still  called 
him,  wanted  to  go  to  college  ;  and  Ralph  was 
well  pleased  at  the  desire.  So  to  school  he 
sent  him,  where  the  bright,  eager  boy  soon 
made  up  the  years  that  had  been  lost  at  home. 
By  the  time  he  was  graduated  from  the  law 
school  the  firm  of  Penhallow  Brothers,  of 
which  Joe  was  now  a  member,  had  acquired 
a  world-wide  fame. 


IV. 


THERE  had  been  a  terrible  fit  of  rage  when 
Madam  Penhallow  received  the  letter  from 
Mac  telling  her  that  he,  too,  had  left  home. 
She  never  afterward  spoke  of  her  sons,  and 
forbade  their  names  to  be  mentioned  in  her 
presence  ;  she  displayed  no  emotion  when  the 
tardy  news  reached  New  Hampshire  that  the 
"Bonaventure  "  had  been  lost  at  sea,  with  all  on 
board.  She  had  apparently  become  without 
human  instinct,  save  only  her  passion  for  her 
husband,  stifled  though  it  was  by  another  — 
a  master  passion. 

Elizabeth  was  nearly  seventeen  when  the 
first  long  act  of  the  tragedy  ended.  She  fell 
in  love  with  the  only  son  of  a  once  cherished 


22  TALES 

friend.  The  prospective  match  was  in  every 
way  a  desirable  one.  Hard  though  it  would 
be  to  lose  his  darling,  Mr.  Penhallow  longed 
to  see  her  in  a  happy  home  of  her  own,  for  he 
shuddered  atthe  thought  of  leaving  her,  in  the 
event  of  his  own  death,  to  the  mercies  of  the 
woman  whom  he  called  wife,  but  whom  Eliz 
abeth  had  never  called  mother.  So  he  sanc 
tioned  not  only  the  speedy  engagement,  but 
urged  an  early  marriage.  The  girl  was  as 
happy  in  her  new-found  bliss  as  it  was  pos 
sible  for  one  of  her  nature  to  be ;  and  the 
reflection  of  her  joy  found  its  way  to  her 
father,  creating  yet  another  and  closer  bond 
between  them. 

Then  it  was  that  Madam  Penhallow,  who 
had  hitherto  paid  no  attention  to  her  daugh 
ter's  preference,  suddenly  awoke  to  what  was 
going  on,  and,  without  even  a  pretext,  forbade 
the  engagement,  and  declared  the  doors  of 
Penhallow  Place  to  be  shut  against  the  young 
lover.  There  was  a  dreadful  scene  following 
this  mandate,  when  Elizabeth  fainted  —  she 
was  wont  to  faint  at  the  least  excitement  — 
and  the  young  man  uttered  reproaches,  hot 
and  long,  to  Madam  Penhallow. 

"  Wait  a  little  while,"  said  the  father,  ready 
to  sacrifice  even  his  daughter  to  his  haunting 
dread  of  disturbance.  "  By  and  by  she  may 
yield." 


PENHALLOW  23 

Elizabeth,  always  ready  to  submit  to  his 
lightest  word,  did  wait,  but  only  for  a  little 
while.  There  were  two  meetings  with  her 
lover,  at  twilight,  on  the  bank  of  the  river; 
the  second  time  was  the  last.  The  next  day 
the  woods  were  searched  for  her  far  and 
near,  her  lover  leading  the  quest,  but  in  vain. 
Then  the  father  directed  that  the  river  should 
be  dragged,  and  there,  at  last,  Elizabeth's 
body  was  found,  concealed  beneath  the  shelv 
ing  bank,  in  one  of  the  places  frequent  on  the 
Merrimac,  near  the  very  spot  where  she  had 
bade  her  lover  farewell. 

They  called  it  a  misstep.  Such  a  weak,  frail 
creature  as  Elizabeth  would  not  have  had  the 
courage  to  take  her  own  life.  Could  the 
mother's  will  have  usurped  the  place  of  the 
daughter's  feeble  powers,  and  relentlessly 
forced  her  to  be  her  own  destroyer  ?  She 
had  clung  to  her  lover  at  their  parting,  sob 
bing  pitifully : 

"  Don't  leave  me !  She  has  always  tried 
to  make  me  do  it.  She  will  make  me  do  it 
to-night !  " 

He  had  thought  her  hysterical. 

The  father  uttered  no  reproach  to  his  wife, 
but  it  was  sad  to  see  his  tall,  stooping  figure, 
with  its  prematurely  gray  hair,  drop  a  bunch 
of  white  roses  into  the  open  grave,  and  turn 
ing,  with  one  heart-broken  sob,  give  his  arm, 


24  TALES 

with  his  never-failing  gentle  courtesy,  to  the 
stately  figure  by  his  side. 

But  a  week  later  there  was  upbraiding  from 
him,  for  the  first  time  in  all  their  married  life. 
No  one  dreamed  that  Madam  Penhallow 
would  give  the  usual  ball  that  July,  but  the 
customary  invitations  were  sent  out  imme 
diately  after  Elizabeth's  funeral.  It  was  not 
till  the  very  day  before  the  festivity  that  the 
sound  of  preparations  awakened  the  hermit 
in  the  library. 

He  sought  his  wife's  apartments  and  im 
plored  her  to  give  up  the  project.  The  ball 
was  a  sacrilege.  It  was  cruel  to  him,  in  his 
loneliness  and  misery,  with  the  only  being  on 
earth  whom  he  loved  torn  from  him,  thus  to 
make  sport  of  death. 

Jealousy  of  the  living  Elizabeth  was  as 
nothing  compared  to  that  which  flamed  up, 
at  these  words,  against  the  dead  girl.  At 
last  even  Mr.  Penhallow  was  aroused  to  the 
anger  of  the  patient  man. 

"  If  you  are  determined  to  disgrace  your 
name  and  your  womanhood,  I  will  not  be 
here  to  witness  the  shame,"  he  cried. 
"  Elizabeth  herself  might  well  arise  from  her 
grave,  in  the  dripping  white  garments  in 
which  she  was  driven  to  her  death,  and  con 
front  you  with  the  reproaches  that  my  darling 
would  not  utter  in  her  lifetime.  It  is  fitting 


PENH  ALLOW  25 

that  you  should  rejoice  over  the  consumma 
tion  of  your  wishes."  His  hand  was  on  the 
latch  as  he  spoke.  "  Good-by,"  he  said. 

She  laughed  scornfully. 

"  Good  morning,  if  you  like,"  she  replied. 
"  You  dare  not  leave  me,  as  the  others,  one 
by  one,  have  done.  You  are  not  Penhallow 
'  by  the  grace  of  God/  but  only  by  the  grace 
of  man." 

The  taunt  struck  home.  Perhaps  at  that 
moment  he  realized  how  much  there  was 
wherein  he  too  had  failed. 

"  I  will  be  Penhallow  no  longer,"  he  said. 
"  It  was  the  mistake  of  my  life  that  I  ever 
took  the  woman  who  bore  the  name.  God 
knows  I  have  expiated  the  error." 

"  I  will  keep  the  first  dance  for  you,  as 
usual,"  she  called  out  mockingly  after 
him. 

"  I  will  be  back  to  open  the  ball  with  you 
upon  your  hundredth  birthday,  and  not  be 
fore,"  he  made  answer  angrily,  and  raised 
his  right  hand,  as  though  in  oath. 

The  preparations  for  the  festivity  went  on. 
Madam  Penhallow  took  a  last  long  look  at 
herself  as  she  stood  before  the  cheval-glass, 
arrayed  in  her  wedding-gown,  that  she  always 
wore  upon  these  occasions,  and,  passing  down 
the  broad  staircase  and  through  the  hall,  took 
her  station  at  the  head  of  the  ball-room.  It 


26  TALES 

occupied  the  entire  ground  floor  of  the  north 
wing.  She  was  mindful  of  all  her  duties  as 
hostess,  but  there  was  more  than  one  guest 
who  noticed  how  often  her  eyes  wandered 
to  the  door  as  she  talked  of  books,  of  poli 
tics,  and  of  well-known  people  in  Boston  and 
Washington. 

But  there  were  two  subjects  upon  which 
none  were  bold  enough  to  touch.  They  were 
the  dead  daughter  and  the  absent  husband ; 
and  there  was  a  chill  upon  all  present,  for  it 
was  indeed  as  though  they  were  "  dancing 
upon  a  grave."  Midnight  came,  and  Madam 
Penhallow  led  the  company  to  the  supper- 
room  ;  in  the  early  dawn  of  the  next  morning, 
when  the  last  guests  were  driving  away,  she 
stood  in  the  portico,  the  morning  breeze  not 
daring  to  move  a  fold  of  her  heavy  gown  or 
to  touch  into  the  faintest  ripple  the  fall  of 
its  lace. 

That  was  the  last  picture  the  world  had  of 
Madam  Penhallow  of  Penhallow  Place. 

She  sold  her  horses ;  the  carriages  were 
stored  in  the  carriage-house ;  the  furniture 
was  covered  with  linen,  and  the  pictures  and 
mirrors  swathed  in  netting.  The  servants 
wondered  among  themselves  as  they  did  her 
bidding.  Some  said  that  she  was  going 
abroad ;  others,  to  Boston  to  live  with  her 
sons ;  yet  others  averred  that  she  intended  to 


PENH  ALLOW  27 

leave  her  home  to  join  her  husband,  who  had 
sworn  never  to  return  there.  At  last,  with 
her  own  hands  she  closed  the  blinds  and  drew 
the  curtains  all  over  the  house,  locked  every 
door  and  window,  paid  the  servants  their 
wages,  and  dismissed  them  one  and  all. 

Her  sons,  when  the  news  reached  them  of 
their  father's  departure,  made  every  effort  to 
find  him,  but  in  vain.  They  thought  he  might 
have  entered  the  army, —  the  war  of  1812  was 
then  going  on, —  but  no  information  regarding 
MacNeil  Penhallow  was  to  be  found.  Only, 
strangely,  none  seemed  to  have  thought  of 
searching  the  records  for  William  MacNeil. 

Madam  Penhallow  remained  alone  at  Pen- 
hallow  Place.  Not  even  her  maid  was  allowed 
to  stay  with  her,  hard  as  the  girl  pleaded  not 
to  be  sent  away  with  the  others.  The  door  of 
the  grand  entrance  was  locked,  never  again  to 
be  opened  during  Madam  Penhallow's  solitary 
life  in  the  mansion. 

There  she  lived  for  ten  long  years,  and  no 
man,  woman,  or  child  ever  looked  upon  her 
face  again.  The  storekeeper  —  there  had 
sprung  up  by  this  time  a  few  scattered  houses 
which  they  called  a  village  —  came  once  a 
week  to  get  a  basket  holding  a  scrap  of  paper 
on  which  a  few  orders  were  written,  that 
was  placed  by  a  side  entrance,  which  he  would 
replace  with  a  basket  containing  the  groceries 


28  TALES 

and  eggs  that  had  been  ordered  the  previous 
week. 

Only  one  person  ever  entered  the  house,  — 
by  the  side  entrance,  —  and  that  was  her  law 
yer.  She  received  him  in  the  drawing-room, 
where,  by  the  light  of  a  solitary  candle,  he  did 
the  necessary  writing,  leaving  any  papers  that 
required  signature.  She  meanwhile  sat  out 
side  the  faint  circle  of  light,  and  her  words 
came  as  from  an  invisible  presence.  Man  of 
the  world  though  he  was,  the  lawyer  shud 
dered  at  those  strange  interviews.  Was  his 
client  alive?  He  chid  himself,  on  his  home 
ward  journey,  for  his  uncanny  fancies. 

No  longer  with  any  one  at  hand  upon  whom 
to  vent  her  rage,  it  seemed  to  have  turned 
itself  upon  the  whole  outside  world.  In  the 
darkness  the  venom  increased,  as  is  the  way 
with  all  noisome  things.  Her  contentions,  her 
lawsuits,  were  never  ceasing. 

As  the  village  grew,  strange  stories  were  rife 
about  fierce  Madam  Penhallow.  She  was  the 
bugaboo  of  all  the  children  for  miles  around. 
"  Ma'am  Penholler  '11  git  yer  !  "  was  the  threat 
of  impatient  mothers.  Even  grown  men  gave 
the  mansion  a  wide  berth  at  nightfall.  It  was 
rumored  that  at  midnight  her  figure  had  been 
seen  among  the  graves  in  the  family  burying- 
ground,  adjoining  which  the  poorhouse  was 
afterward  built. 


PENHALLOW  29 

Seven  miles  away  a  community  of  mills  had 
sprung  up,  and  there  were  contests  about 
water  power,  and  a  lawsuit  because  the  Mer- 
rimac,  as  it  flowed  by  her  grounds,  had  be 
come  befouled  with  the  factory  refuse.  But 
the  town  grew,  and  the  factories  increased  in 
number  and  extent,  and  the  mill-owners  built 
houses  on  the  outskirts  of  what  was  now  a 
thriving  city,  and  there  followed  other  con 
tests  about  rights  of  way,  a  railroad  here,  and 
a  boundary  there.  Sometimes  there  were 
three  or  four  lawsuits  of "  Penhallow  versus 

"  going  on  at  once.  They  all  ended  in 

one  way  —  a  "  verdict  with  costs  against 
Penhallow."  At  last  even  the  house  and 
grounds  were  mortgaged  to  sustain  her  in  her 
resolution  that  the  highroad  should  not  be 
cut  through  the  lawn.  But  that  contest,  the 
longest  and  bitterest  of  all,  likewise  came 
to  an  end,  and  with  it  came  the  knowledge 
that  there  was  not  enough  money  left  even 
to  pay  the  interest  on  the  mortgage  on  the 
mansion. 

My  great-grandmother  had  married  imme 
diately  after  leaving  Madam  Penhallow's  ser 
vice,  and  had  since  lived  on  the  secluded  little 
farm.  It  was  not  until  weeks  after  the  end 
was  reached  that  she  heard  how  the  mortgage 
on  the  Place  had  been  foreclosed,  and  that 
there  had  been  an  auction  of  carriages  and 


30  TALES 

household  effects,  and  even  of  Madam  Pen- 
hallow's  personal  wardrobe.  For  the  first 
time  for  many  years  the  grand  entrance  was 
opened,  light  was  let  into  the  house,  and 
human  footsteps  and  living  voices  sounded  in 
the  rooms. 

Madam  Penhallow  sat  alone  in  her  own 
chamber  while  the  auction  was  held  in  the 
ball-room  beneath ;  she  could  hear  the  auc 
tioneer's  voice  offering  for  sale  her  heirlooms, 
with  the  jests  which,  it  was  supposed,  made 
the  sales  livelier.  A  wealthy  mill-owner  — 
his  father  had  been  a  stable-boy  in  Colonel 
Penhallow's  time  —  bought  the  mansion,  and 
the  valuables  were  scattered  far  and  wide. 

Those  closing  scenes  were  forty  years  ago, 
and  since  then  Penhallow  Place  had  never 
been  occupied  save  for  two  brief  periods.  The 
first  was  by  the  mill-owner,  who  soon  left 
the  house.  People  shook  their  heads  at  the 
alleged  reason  —  that  it  was  damp.  Later  it 
was  used  as  a  boarding-house  for  the  laborers 
when  the  railroad  was  built.  No  one  knew 
what  became  of  Madam  Penhallow.  Her 
sons,  through  their  lawyer,  who  attended  the 
sale,  offered  her  a  handsome  annuity.  She 
tore  the  letter  to  pieces  and  sent  back  the 
fragments  for  answer.  Whither  she  went, 
when  and  how  she  died,  none  ever  knew.  It 
was  a  strange  story,  whose  inner  meaning  my 


PENH  ALLOW  31 

grandmother  told  me  alone,  as  she  lay  upon 
her  death-bed. 

The  evil  had  begun  in  Madam  Penhallow's 
taking  opium  for  sleepless  nights,  after  her 
first  children  were  born.  The  small  amount 
with  which  she  had  begun  soon  losing  its 
effect,  the  quantity  was  gradually  but  steadily 
increased.  There  were  terrible  struggles  to 
free  herself  from  its  chains  when  she  first 
began  to  realize  what  a  hold  the  habit  was 
getting  upon  her.  But  the  craving  was  irre 
sistible,  and  the  yielding  to  its  demands  came 
after  ever  weakening  efforts  to  assert  her  will. 
More  than  once  she  was  on  the  point  of  con 
fessing  all  to  her  husband  and  begging  him  to 
put  her  under  restraint.  Had  his  man's  will 
been  equal  to  her  woman's  strength  of  pur 
pose,  all  might  yet  have  gone  well  with  her, 
fighting  as  she  was  for  her  husband,  her  chil 
dren,  and  her  home. 

But  already  the  weakness  of  his  nature  had 
been  revealed  to  her,  and  she  turned  aside 
from  the  support  of  a  broken  reed.  Besides, 
how  could  she  acknowledge  that  she,  with  the 
will  upon  whose  strength  she  had  openly 
prided  herself,  was  not  strong  enough  to  con 
trol  an  appetite ! 

The  passion  grew  stronger  and  the  struggle 
weaker.  Days  and  nights  were  passed  in  stu 
por,  the  faithful  maid  on  guard  in  the  dressing- 


32  TALES 

room.  In  those  days  the  opium  habit  was 
almost  unknown,  and  Madam  Penhallow  had 
unusual  opportunities  for  obtaining  the  drug, 
while  it  was  not  suspected  that  she  was  a 
victim  to  the  fatal  craving. 

So  she  lived  and  passed  away,  and  all  the 
world  held  her  memory  in  opprobrium.  All 
but  one  —  her  maid's  great-granddaughter. 
At  odds  with  her  very  nature,  had  she  indeed 
any  chance  in  the  struggle,  from  the  begin 
ning  to  the  bitter  end? 

To-morrow  Penhallow  Place  would  be  filled 
with  people  again.  The  curtain  had  gone 
down  on  the  tragedy,  and  the  bell  had  rung 
for  it  to  go  up  on  the  farce. 


V. 


"  THIS  is  your  table,"  said  Mrs.  Wason,  as 
I  followed  her  brisk  steps  down  the  long  din 
ing-room.  She  was  a  woman  with  "  faculty  " 
written  all  over  her ;  in  her  beady,  snapping 
black  eyes,  in  her  scanty  hair  brushed  smoothly 
back  from  a  shining  forehead  to  be  twisted 
into  a  hard  little  knob  behind,  and  in  her  bony 
hands  with  their  fingers  worn  to  glassy  smooth 
ness  away  from  the  red  knuckles.  If  any  one 
could  make  keeping  boarders  pay,  it  was  Mrs. 
Wason.  "  My  best  folks  sit  here,"  she  added, 


PENHALLOW  33 

"  an'  I  calkerlate  as  how  you  could  do  the 
waitin'  smart  as  any  on  'em ;  an'  you  look 
kind  o'  tasty  an'  spruced  up  in  that  apron." 

She  went  on  assigning  their  places  to  the 
other  girls,  while  I  stood  by  my  table,  waiting 
for  the  folks  to  come  in  to  supper.  The  gong 
had  sounded,  and  there  were  one  or  two  guests 
standing  by  the  door.  The  hired  help  had 
been  busy  since  four  o'clock  that  morning, 
making  beds,  filling  pitchers,  and  getting 
things  in  order  generally.  Some  of  us  had 
placed  flowers  in  the  various  rooms,  to  try  to 
have  the  house  look  cheerful  and  homelike ; 
for  in  spite  of  the  fresh  paint  and  the  new 
furniture  there  was  a  kind  of  chill  in  the  air 
that  made  us  look  over  our  shoulders  in  the 
passages  and  hurry  on  the  stairs.  It  would 
have  been  as  much  as  our  places  were  worth 
to  mention  this  fear  to  Mrs.  Wason,  for  she 
knew  it  did  not  take  much  to  give  a  house  a 
bad  name,  and  we  had  all  been  charged  not 
to  breathe  a  word  of  the  old  stories  to  the 
Boston  folks. 

The  rooms  that  were  formerly  Madam  Pen- 
hallow's  own  were  in  my  charge,  and  I  had 
put  roses  in  every  available  nook ;  on  the 
dressing-table  was  &  glass  pitcher,  crowded 
with  our  own  "  thousand-leaved "  variety, 
which  blossomed  so  luxuriantly  in  our  garden 
on  the  hillside  farm.  Early  the  day  before  I 


34  TALES 

had  gone  home  with  a  boy  who  drove  through 
the  neighborhood  to  collect  milk  from  the 
farmers.  We  used  to  play  together  at  the 
district  school,  but  he  had  grown  bashful 
since  those  days,  and  I  don't  believe  spoke  a 
word,  except  in  answer  to  a  question,  during 
all  the  drive  over. 

You  could  not  find  such  roses  as  ours  in  all 
the  country  round.  My  great-grandmother 
had  brought  a  slip  of  the  bush  with  her  when 
she  left  Penhallow  Place.  The  garden  back 
of  the  mansion  had  long  ago  run  to  decay, 
and  not  a  vestige  of  what  had  been  Madam 
Penhallow's  favorite  flower  was  to  be  found 
there  now;  but  the  tiny  slip  had  thriven  in 
our  garden,  and  every  year  covered  the  back 
of  our  cottage  with  its  June  glories.  It 
seemed  as  though  it  were  for  Madam  Pen- 
hallow  herself  that  I  was  bringing  back  the 
flowers.  It  was  strange  how  the  conception 
of  her  as  of  a  living  personality  clung  to  me. 
But  then  mother  had  often  chidden  me  for 
being  fanciful. 

A  stream  of  people  had  entered  the  dining- 
room,  the  ladies  arrayed  in  bright  summer 
gowns,  the  gentlemen  walking  with  alert  steps 
and  with  heads  erect.  None  of  the  men  to 
whom  I  was  accustomed  carried  themselves 
in  such  a  way.  Mrs.  Wason  was  showing 
them  to  their  places.  The  words  that  awoke 


PENH  ALLOW  35 

me  from  my  dream  were  uttered  in  her  thin, 
high-pitched  voice. 

"  Will  you  sit  here?  Martiny  will  wait  on 
you.  This  is  Martiny." 

I  took  a  step  forward  to  draw  back  the 
chairs,  and  then  stood  petrified,  staring  at 
the  new-comers,  like  the  awkward  country  girl 
they  must  have  thought  me. 

When  and  where  and  how  had  I  seen  that 
woman  before  —  seen  her  with  more  than  a 
mere  passing  glance;  ay,  and  held  converse 
with  her,  not  once  or  twice,  but  many  times? 

She  was  tall  —  above  the  common  height 
—  and  broad-shouldered,  yet  so  well  propor 
tioned  that  she  struck  one  as  slender.  She 
was  pale,  and  there  were  dark  rings  beneath 
her  beautiful  gray  eyes ;  her  hair  was  brown, 
of  curiously  different  shades.  In  the  deepest 
tints  it  was  dark  brown  —  not  reddish,  but 
pure  brown,  paling  here  and  there  to  a  lighter 
shade,  while  in  the  thick  coils  that  lay  about 
her  head  were  rings  and  gleams  of  gold. 
Where  had  I  seen  hair  like  that  before? 
Hers  and  no  other's  it  must  have  been,  for, 
search  as  one  might,  how  often,  in  a  lifetime, 
could  one  find  such  softly  shaded  masses, 
lighted  up  with  gold?  Her  mouth  was  the 
loveliest  feature  of  her  beautiful  face.  One 
lip  had  a  fashion  of  curling  as  she  talked. 
Her  chin  was  square  and  firm,  but  soft  and 


36  TALES 

feminine  too.  She  wore  a  gown  of  yellowish 
brown  of  some  soft  silken  stuff.  Her  neck 
was  bare  in  a  tiny  point  in  front,  and  in  the 
folds  of  the  lace  was  one  of  the  thousand- 
leaved  roses.  Her  whole  appearance  was 
familiar  to  me,  even  to  the  ring  on  the  hand 
that  lay  lightly  on  her  companion's  arm.  It 
was  a  ring  set  with  a  rough  gray  stone,  en 
circled  with  diamonds. 

The  gentleman  belonged  in  the  picture  too, 
although  his  face  and  figure  were  not  so  vivid 
as  were  the  lady's.  He  was  of  about  her 
height,  with  fair,  wavy  hair,  a  slight  mustache, 
and  blue  eyes  that  never  left  his  companion's 
face  as  she  talked  eagerly  upon  some  ap 
parently  engrossing  theme.  Her  voice  was 
familiar  too,  as  its  tones  came  to  me  with 
their  pure  quality,  and  now  and  then,  as  she 
warmed  with  her  subject,  with  inflections  that 
were  not  shrillness,  but  were  like  chords  of  a 
yet  purer  quality.  Possibly  the  familiarity 
of  face  and  figure  might  have  been  explained 
by  some  coincidence,  but  the  voice  I  had 
heard  before,  yet  when,  or  where,  or  how,  I 
did  not  know. 

I  put  my  hand  to  my  forehead  in  the  pain 
ful  struggle  to  recall  where  I  had  heard  tones 
that  were  surely  hers  —  far-off,  haunting  tones, 
with  their  silvery  cadences  now  and  again 
glancing  into  shrillness.  No,  not  shrillness. 


PENH  ALLOW  37 

Such  a  voice  as  that  could  never  become, 
even  in  the  course  of  years,  sharp  and  ear- 
splitting,  penetrating  walls  and  cleaving  the 
air,  however  one  might  seek  to  shut  it  out. 
Why  was  it  that  I  felt  myself  all  at  once  in  my 
little  attic  chamber?  I  was  growing  dizzy. 

I  clutched  the  back  of  the  nearest  chair. 
The  sudden  motion  broke  the  spell.  I  could 
see  that  the  girl  at  the  next  table,  who  had 
overheard  the  complimentary  words  Mrs. 
Wason  had  spoken  to  me,  was  looking  pleased 
at  my  awkwardness. 

The  lady  before  me  drew  back  her  chair 
herself,  with  the  hand  upon  which  was  the 
curious  ring. 

"  So  this  is  Martina?  "  said  she.  "  Thank 
you  for  the  roses.  I  could  not  leave  them  all 
behind,  you  see.  I  hope  that  Mrs.  Wason 
has  as  good  a  welcome  for  us  here,  for  we 
are  hungry." 

I  told  them,  haltingly,  what  we  had  for 
supper. 

"  Hot  biscuit  and  tea  for  two,"  she  ordered 
promptly. 

"  Sarah,  you  must  not  eat  hot  biscuit,  and 
the  doctor  forbade  tea,  unconditionally,"  said 
the  gentleman  earnestly.  "  Let  me  order  toast 
and  milk  for  you." 

"  I  detest  milk.  I  am  hungry,  and  will  have 
what  I  want." 


38  TALES 

I  hurried  to  the  kitchen,  where  Mrs.  Wason 
was  everywhere  at  once,  breaking  up  pans  of 
biscuits,  turning  pancakes,  and  taking  muffins 
and  waffles  from  the  stove.  Instead  of  giving 
her  my  orders,  I  questioned,  breathlessly : 

"  Mrs.  Wason,  who  are  the  folks  at  my 
table?" 

"  Lor',  child,  how  flustrated  yer  be,"  said 
she.  "Them's  Mr.  and  Mis'  MacNeil  Pen- 
holler." 


VI. 


I  WAS  helping  Mrs.  Wason  iron  some  of  the 
ladies'  fine  skirts,  my  grandmother  having 
taught  me  how  to  clear  starch.  Some  of  the 
girls  were  afraid  of  doing  more  than  they  had 
hired  out  to  do,  for  Mrs.  Wason  not  only 
drove  herself,  but  expected  every  one  else  to 
drive,  even  if  they  were  not  bound  anywhere 
in  particular.  The  original  laundry  was  not 
large  enough  for  the  present  needs  of  the 
house,  and  the  old  ball-room  had  been  util 
ized  for  that  purpose.  Tubs  had  been  placed 
along  one  side  of  the  room  and  long  ironing- 
tables  upon  the  other,  with  a  stove  at  each 
end  on  which  to  heat  the  flat-irons ;  the  long 
windows,  opening  on  the  piazza,  afforded  easy 
access  to  the  drying-ground  back  of  the 
house.  This  was  the  first  chance  that  I  had 


PENHALLOW  39 

had  to  ask  the  question  that  had  been  hover 
ing  on  my  lips  for  the  past  three  days. 

"  Be  they  related  ter  the  folks  as  used  ter 
live  here?  Yis,  they're  the  great  gran'chil- 
dren ;  he's  Hon.  MacNeil  Penholler's  gran'- 
son,  an'  I've  hearn  tell  is  the  livin'  image  of 
his  gran'pa.  Hain't  she  hahn'some?  Yer  kin 
see  the  real  lady  in  her.  Pity  she  hain't  more 
rugged.  'Twould  ha'  been  better  for  her  ef 
she'd  ha'  be'n  reared  in  the  country,  on  good, 
healthy  victuals,  beans  an'  pork  an'  pie,  'stid 
o'  the  new-fangled  dishes  that  Bostin  folks  like. 
She's  got  dyspepsy  consid'rable  bad.  I  was 
a-tellin'  of  her  t'other  mornin'  how  my  son's 
wife's  appetite  got  so  nippin'  after  she'd  buried 
Jemmy  that  she  couldn't  relish  a  dish  o'  beans 
an'  was  never  even  pie-hungry.  All  she  lived 
on  was  milk ;  she  was  a  powerful  hand  to  drink 
milk —  used  ter  say  she  b'lieved  she  never  was 
weaned.  She  took  '  Turlington's  Balsam.' 
Three  drops  on  a  lump  of  sugar  ev'ry  mornin' 
until  she  could  stumick  a  teaspoonful.  Now 
she's  as  rugged  a  woman  as  yer'd  want  ter 
see,  an'  thinks  nothin'  of  her  big  washes  an' 
the  cookin'  fur  seven  children  an'  all  the  men- 
folks.  She  sets  a  store  by  '  Turlington's  Bal 
sam,'  I  kin  tell  yer. 

"  I  hain't  got  no  faith  in  doctors,  but  seein's 
b'lievin',  an'  so  I  tol'  Mis'  Penholler.  But 
she's  everlastin'  set,  an'  I  don'  b'lieve  minds 


40  TALES 

the  doctor  any  more'n  suits  her  high-mighti 
ness.  She  has  nooraligy,  too,  all  down  her 
back ;  but  when  I  tol'  her  of  how  I  knew  a 
woman  who'd  cured  folks  by  holdin'  of  their 
heads,  an'  all  they  had  ter  do  themselves  was 
jist  ter  have  faith,  she  laughed  as  though  she'd 
die.  The  doctor  calls  her  ailment  nervous  pros- 
terration,  an'  she  says  his  prescripture-on  is 
milk.  Beats  all  what  some  folks  will  b'lieve. 

"  They  was  only  married  las'  fall,  so  she  an' 
her  husband  set  consid'rable  store  by  each 
other  yit ;  the  doctor  said  she  must  git  some 
where  where  it  was  high  an'  dry  an'  there  was 
pine  breezes  instid  o'  salt  ones.  An'  she  said 
she  wouldn't  leave  Bostin  unless  her  husband 
could  be  with  her;  between  yer  an'  me,  I 
rather  guess  it's  she  who's  master.  But  when 
she  saw  the  picter  of  the  Place  in  the  cir- 
cler  an'  how  the  steam-cars  come  up  to  the 
very  door,  as  yer  may  say,  she  made  up  her 
min'  on  the  spot  that  she  would  go  '  home,' 
as  she  persis'  in  callin'  Penholler  Place.  She's 
cur'us  enough  'bout  the  house,  an'  asked  me  a 
sight  o'  questions  'bout  the  rooms.  I  b'lieve 
she  actyerally  thought  as  how  I  could  remem 
ber  back  t'  her  great-gran'ma'am's  time. 

"  Yer'd  oughter  see  her  eyes  open  when  I 
tol'  her  that  yer  great-gran'ma'am  was  Ma'am 
Penholler's  own  maid,  an'  that  yer  folks  had 
tol'  me  that  yer  was  her  livin'  image. 


PENHALLOW  41 

"  Be  yer  through?  Ef  I  kin  do  yer  a  good 
turn,  Martiny,  I'll  not  forgit.  'Tain't  many 
as  kin  starch  lace  an'  muslin  like  yer  an'  me, 
ef  I  do  say  it !  " 

VII. 

EVERY  morning  Mrs.  Penhallow  would  ac 
company  her  husband  across  the  lawn  to  the 
little  railroad  station  and  remain  on  the  plat 
form  till  the  train  was  out  of  sight.  The  train 
by  which  he  returned  arrived  at  six  o'clock, 
and  at  half-past  five  Mrs.  Penhallow,  arrayed 
in  one  of  the  lovely  gowns  of  which  she 
had  such  a  store,  would  be  sitting  at  her 
window  watching  for  the  first  faint  cloud  of 
smoke. 

I  liked  to  watch  them  from  my  post  in  the 
dining-room,  as  with  linked  arms  they  slowly 
crossed  the  lawn.  Once  or  twice  Mr.  Pen 
hallow  was  detained  in  town  until  ten  o'clock, 
but  she  was  at  the  station,  as  usual,  to  greet 
him,  while  she  had  delayed  her  own  supper 
that  they  might  partake  of  it  together.  One 
morning,  at  breakfast,  I  noticed  how  red  her 
eyes  were,  nor  was  it  possible  to  avoid  over 
hearing  some  of  the  words  that  passed  between 
them.  She  had  a  high  way  of  disregarding 
that  which  holds  most  people  in  check  —  the 
thought  of  what  folks  may  say. 


42  TALES 

"  Don't  go,  darling." 

"  But  I  shall  soon  return,  Sarah." 

"  Let  somebody  else  go ;  I  want  you  to 
stay  with  me." 

"  No  other  person  can  attend  to  this  busi 
ness  as  well  as  I.  New  York  is  not  so  long  a 
journey  from  here  that  you  will  have  time  to 
miss  me  before  I  am  home  again." 

"  Stay  with  me.  Just  this  once.  Don't 
leave  me,  Mac,  dearest." 

But  in  spite  of  her  persuasion  I  saw  that  he 
had  his  travelling-bag  with  him  as  they  crossed 
the  lawn ;  from  her  gestures  it  was  evident 
that  she  was  seeking  to  detain  him  to  the  very 
last.  The  morning  following  his  departure  she 
sent  word  for  her  breakfast  to  be  brought  to 
her  room.  I  laid  upon  the  tray  some  branches 
of  swamp  pinks  that  I  had  gathered  near  my 
old  home  that  morning.  Harry  had  driven 
me  over  several  times  of  late.  Mrs.  Wason 
let  me  go  whenever  I  asked,  on  condition  that 
I  was  back  in  time  to  wait  upon  the  breakfast 
table. 

"  Come,"  said  Mrs.  Penhallow's  voice  ;  and 
I  entered. 

She  was  in  bed.  Her  arms,  bare  to  the 
elbow,  were  flung  over  her  head,  and  her  hair 
lay  in  masses  upon  the  pillow.  I  drew  a  table 
to  the  bedside,  placed  the  tray  upon  it,  and 
was  about  to  withdraw. 


PENHALLOW  43 

"  Don't  go,"  she  said  listlessly.  "  I  want 
to  talk  with  you." 

So  I  sat  down  in  the  chair  she  indicated, 
and  waited  till  she  had  sipped  the  strong 
coffee  that  she  had  been  so  particular  in 
ordering. 

"  Thank  you  for  the  flowers,"  she  said  pres 
ently  ;  "  you  keep  my  room  like  a  garden. 
Did  those  grow  near  here?  "  raising  the  pinks 
to  her  face. 

I  told  her  shyly  where  it  was  that  I  had 
gathered  them,  as  well  as  the  roses. 

"  Do  you  really  take  all  that  trouble  to 
bring  me  flowers?  You  are  very  kind, 
Martina." 

"  I  love  to  gather  them  for  you,"  I  said 
impulsively. 

"  They  came  from  your  old  home,  you  say? 
Tell  me  about  it." 

I  forgot  that  she  was  one  of  the  fine  Boston 
folks,  and  that  I  was  only  a  poor  country  girl, 
and  was  soon  describing  my  home,  and  even 
telling  her  of  my  grief  when  I  heard  that  father 
had  sold  it  and  gone  to  the  poorhouse.  Em 
boldened  by  her  interest,  I  went  on  to  tell  her 
about  some  of  the  paupers,  concluding  with  a 
description  of  old  Sally  Waters,  who  sat  on 
the  south  steps  all  day,  shrieking  at  intervals 
about  the  witches  who  "  tormented  her  'most 
to  death." 


44  TALES 

"  Poor  old  woman,  who  knows  what  Furies 
may  be  pursuing  her  from  out  the  shadows 
of  the  past !  "  said  Mrs.  Penhallow,  gently. 
"  It  was  but  a  sorry  home-coming  for  you, 
Martina." 

She  detained  me  some  time  longer  that 
morning,  listening  and  asking  questions.  She 
had  not  been  feeling  as  well  as  usual,  she  said, 
and  after  lying  awake  till  dawn  had  then  fallen 
into  a  heavy  sleep. 

She  suffered  terribly  at  times  from  neural 
gia;  some  nights  she  walked  up  and  down 
the  room  until  early  morning,  when  the  pain 
would  lessen.  But  no  matter  what  the  agony 
had  been,  she  always  appeared  with  her  hus 
band  at  the  breakfast  table.  She  was  not  even 
looking  as  well  as  when  she  first  came  to  Pen- 
hallow  Place,  despite  the  "  healthy  situation 
and  pine  breezes."  After  that  morning  when 
I  first  talked  with  her  she  took  considerable 
notice  of  me  in  one  way  or  another,  and  when 
I  took  her  breakfast  to  her  room,  which  I  did 
whenever  business  had  called  Mr.  Penhallow 
away  overnight,  she  would  bid  me  remain  — 
at  first,  I  think,  from  a  desire  for  any  diversion, 
but  after  a  while  I  am  sure  it  was  because  she 
was  really  interested. 

I  supposed,  for  some  time,  that  her  hus 
band's  absence  was  the  reason  for  her  non- 
appearance  at  the  breakfast  table;  but  by 


PENHALLOW  45 

degrees  I  began  to  suspect  that  something  was 
wrong  about  those  morning  naps,  she  was  so 
drowsy  and  heavy-eyed,  and  would  so  eagerly 
drink  the  strong  black  coffee  she  always 
ordered.  It  was  later  than  usual  one  day 
when  I  entered  her  room,  and  she  was  half 
asleep,  but  aroused  herself  to  say,  as  I  placed 
the  tray  on  the  table : 

"Is  that  you,  Martina?  Give  me  the  cof 
fee." 

It  was  partly,  perhaps,  because  the  story  of 
Madam  Penhallow  was  so  familiar  to  me,  and 
because  Mrs.  Penhallow  was  so  inextricably 
tangled  up  in  my  mind  with  the  story  of  long 
ago,  that  the  dawning  truth  grew  clear  to  me 
in  a  flash,  and  I  cried : 

"  Oh,  don't !  " 

The  cup  at  her  lips  was  replaced  in  the 
tray,  and  there  was  both  astonishment  and 
anger  in  Mrs.  Penhallow's  tones  as  she  said : 

"  Don't  drink  coffee?  You  forget  yourself, 
Martina." 

"  No,  no  ;   I  mean  —  don't  take  opium." 

There  was  a  full  half-minute's  silence. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  said  haughtily. 
"  I  have  encouraged  you  too  much  by  listen 
ing  to  your  prattle.  I  take  nothing  of  the 
kind."  And  she  drained  the  cup  at  one 
draught. 

But  she    had    inadvertently    denied    more 


46  TALES 

than  she  intended.  With  a  Penhallow  truth 
was  truth,  without  argument  or  sophistry. 

"  I  take  morphine,"  she  said  ;  "  and  what 
objection  have  you  to  my  doing  so,  pray?" 

"  Please  don't,"  I  begged.  "  I  am  afraid 
that  some  day  you  might  take  too  much." 

Her  lip  curled  scornfully. 

"  And  you  believe  all  those  old  woman's 
stories?  Doubtless  morphine  might  be  dan 
gerous  in  the  hands  of  an  ignorant  country 
woman,  but  I  am  not  likely  to  blunder.  Are 
you  afraid  that  some  morning  you  will  bring 
your  flowers  and  find  only  an  unpleasant  body 
to  which  to  offer  them?"  Her  scornful  tone 
changed  as  in  silence  I  took  the  tray  and 
turned  to  leave  the  room.  "What  can  I  do?  " 
she  said  impatiently.  "  You  don't  know  the 
temptation.  The  pain  is  horrible.  It  torments 
me  almost  to  death  !  "  And  the  sharpness  of 
her  voice  fairly  rang  through  the  room. 

I  had  dropped  the  tray,  and,  unheeding 
the  broken  china,  stood  regarding  her  wildly. 
When  had  I  heard  her  voice  before,  strained 
with  agony,  sharp  with  mingled  despair  and 
defiance,  utter  those  very  words? 

The  strain  was  too  much  for  my  self-con 
trol,  and  I  burst  into  tears. 

"  There,  Martina,  don't  take  it  to  heart," 
said  Mrs.  Penhallow,  in  her  usual  careless, 
imperious  tones.  "  You  meant  no  harm. 


PENHALLOW  47 

That  is  all  I  require  this  morning ;  you  can 
go  now."  And  I  went. 

It  was  of  Madam  Penhallow  that  she  liked 
best  to  hear,  and  I  to  relate,  in  those  confi 
dential  hours  in  her  room. 

"You  do  not  know  the  hold  that  she  has 
always  had  upon  my  imagination,"  she  said, 
one  day.  "  It  has  become  stronger  than  ever 
since  I  have  lived  in  this  house.  None  of  us 
ever  dared  question  our  grandfather  about- 
the  strange  story  that  we  vaguely  knew  was 
connected  with  Madam  Penhallow. 

"One  day  I  was  rummaging  through  some 
old  chests  in  the  store-room,  when  I  came 
upon  a  miniature  of  her  by  Malbone.  My 
likeness  to  the  pictured  face  was  apparent 
even  to  myself.  I  could  fancy  at  times  that 
the  strong  will  and  wild  passion  still  linger  in 
these  rooms,  ready  to  exert  their  influence 
over  those  whom,  by  birth  and  blood,  she 
may  claim.  I  cannot  believe  that  she  would 
have  been  content  to  give  up  her  sway  with 
life." 

Mrs.  Penhallow  talked  oddly  sometimes. 
Often,  after  leaving  her  room,  I  would  hurry 
through  the  corridors  and  run  down  the  stairs, 
sure  that  a  tall,  stately  figure,  in  the  robes  of 
eighty  years  ago,  was  gliding  after  me. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  think  her  ghost  is 
here  ?  "  I  asked,  one  day. 


48  TALES 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  "  she  laughed.  "  Have  I 
been  frightening  you  by  my  vagaries  ?  I  was 
only  wondering  how  much  influence  mind 
can  have  over  mind,  even  though  one  has 
been  for  a  half-century  what  men  call  dead." 

I  did  not  know  what  she  meant.  I  thought 
a  ghost  was  a  ghost,  but  she  seemed  to  con 
sider  that  there  was  something  vulgar  in  that 
idea. 

Some  Sunday,  she  had  said,  she  wanted  me 
to  show  her  and  Mr.  Penhallow  about  the 
mansion,  for  I  knew  its  every  nook  and  cor 
ner,  and  what  purpose  each  room  had  served 
in  the  old  time.  The  first  Sunday  slipped  by, 
and  on  the  second  they  went  to  church  in  the 
morning,  and  in  the  afternoon  took  a  long 
walk.  But  the  following  week  Mrs.  Penhallow 
sent  for  me  and  reminded  me  of  her  wish. 

"  You  know  that  these  rooms  were  Madam 
Penhallow's  own?  "  I  began. 

"  There  is  a  horrible  depressing  influence 
about  them  that  would  have  told  me,  even  if 
Mrs.  Wason  had  not,"  she  returned  impa 
tiently.  "  No,  Mac,  I  cannot  shake  off  the 
feeling  that  something  is  about  to  happen." 

Her  words  were  evidently  in  continuation 
of  a  conversation  that  my  entrance  had  inter 
rupted.  She  was  walking  excitedly  up  and 
down  the  room.  Mr.  Penhallow  was  seated, 
with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand. 


PENHALLOW  49 

"  Are  you  oppressed  with  a  haunting  sense 
of  impending  evil?"  he  questioned  gravely. 

"  That  is  it,  exactly,"  she  assented  eagerly. 
"  I  never  experienced  the  feeling  before,  but, 
strive  as  I  may,  I  cannot  drive  it  from  me." 

"  Are  your  dreams  troubled,  your  sleep 
restless?  Are  you  haunted  by  strange  fan 
cies  and  morbid  imaginings  in  your  waking 
hours?  " 

"  All  that,  Mac,  and  more.  I  am  tormented 
almost  to  death !  Don't  look  so  wild,  Mar 
tina  !  Let  us  leave  this  hateful  place,"  she 
went  on,  too  excited  to  see  that  her  husband 
was  laughing  behind  his  screen. 

"  Then  take  '  Swinton's  Specific  !  '  "  he  con 
cluded,  pointing  with  an  air  of  mock  convic 
tion  to  a  newspaper  advertisement  he  had  been 
reading.  At  first  she  did  not  know  whether 
to  be  angry  or  to  laugh,  but  at  last  she  chose 
the  latter  course. 

"  If  you  would  leave  tea  and  coffee  alone, 
you  would  stop  having  presentiments.  Dys 
pepsia  is  answerable  for  much  of  the  bigotry 
and  superstition  of  this  world,"  said  Mr.  Pen- 
hallow. 

"  Who  knows  but  what,  in  time,  I  may  come 
to  put  faith  in  '  Turlington,'  ghosts,  and  the 
faith  cure  !  "  she  returned  gayly,  slipping  her 
hand  through  his  arm.  "  Come,  let  us  go. 
If  we  encounter  the  traditional  white-robed 


50  TALES 

figure,  clanking  chains  and  diffusing  sulphuric 
fumes,  we  are  three  strong  and  can  surely  lay 
her.  Martina  is  actually  pale  listening  to  our 
rambling  talk." 

I  led  the  way  through  the  state  rooms. 
General  Lafayette  had  slept  here ;  Daniel 
Webster  had  once  occupied  this  apartment 
for  three  days.  Count  Rumford  always  had 
this  room,  with  its  view  down  the  river.  These 
rooms  had  been  known  as  "  Bachelors'  Cor 
ridor."  The  last  apartments  we  visited  were 
those  in  the  south  wing,  where  each  boy 
had  had  a  separate  room,  except  Ralph  and 
George,  who  always  slept  together.  This 
corner  room  had  been  "  Little  Mac's."  I 
stopped,  blushing,  for  I  had  forgotten,  in  my 
earnestness,  that  I  was  not  speaking  of  a 
golden-haired  little  boy,  but  of  Hon.  MacNeil 
Penhallow,  who  had  made  famous  speeches 
in  Congress  and  had  been  sent  abroad  as 
minister  to  more  than  one  foreign  court. 

"  Dear  little  fellow !  "  mused  Mrs.  Pen- 
hallow.  "  Can't  you  see  him,  Mac,  in  his 
velvet  knee-breeches,  his  wide  sash,  and  his 
yellow  curls?  I  wonder  if  his  mother  kept 
a  lock  of  that  shining  hair  in  her  fierce  old 
age?" 

"  I  wish  that  we  could  indeed  have  met  her 
in  the  corridors,  overthrow  though  it  would 
have  been  to  our  Boston  scepticism,  for  with 


PENH  ALLOW  51 

all  my  heart  I  would  have  given  her  the  for 
giveness  that  her  Little  Mac  would  have 
granted  so  freely.  He  could  never  hold  ran 
cor,  you  know." 

"  And  I  know  one  who  is  as  like  him  in 
spirit  as  in  form  and  face,"  she  returned, 
softly. 

At  the  door  of  their  own  room  Mrs.  Pen- 
hallow  turned  to  me. 

"  I  have  been  telling  Mr.  Penhallow  about 
your  old  home,"  she  said.  "  We  will  go  there 
with  you  to-morrow  morning." 

"  The  wagon  has  no  springs,  and  we  shall 
have  to  start  at  four  o'clock,"  I  faltered. 

"  That  is  the  way  and  the  time  we  want  to 
go.  It  would  destroy  all  the  savor  to  order 
the  horses  and  carriage  and  go  at  an  orthodox 
hour.  Be  sure  and  wake  us  in  time." 

So  I  ran  downstairs  to  tell  Harry  to  put  an 
extra  seat  in  the  wagon.  He  had  been  help 
ing  Mr.  Wason  lately  with  the  chores. 


VIII. 

THE  road  led  down  the  village  street  and 
across  the  big  iron  bridge,  till  presently  it 
brought  us  to  the  open  country.  We  drove 
past  belts  and  groves  of  pines  and  stretches  of 
woodland ;  then,  for  a  while,  along  the  high 


52  TALES 

river  bank,  with  the  water  gleaming  through 
its  fringe  of  birches  and  alders.  Emerging 
again  into  the  open  country,  the  road  led 
past  fields  that  stretched,  on  either  hand,  to 
far  in  the  distance. 

The  tall  pines  that  now  bordered  the  road 
shut  off  my  old  home  from  view  till  we  turned 
into  the  rocky  driveway  and  the  next  moment 
were  in  sight  of  a  long,  low  house.  Apple 
and  pear  and  cherry  trees  covered  the  slopes 
about.  Farther  up  the  hill  lay  the  garden,  in 
which  vegetables  and  flowers  grew  together 
in  friendlyjuxtaposition.  Over  there,  by  the 
stone  wall,  were  the  beehives,  and  there  was 
the  well,  whose  site  father  had  discovered  by 
means  of  a  witch-hazel  wand.  The  last  place 
that  we  visited  was  the  little  pool  by  the 
hedge. 

"  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  love  your  home," 
said  Mrs.  Penhallow. 

"  You  cannot  understand,"  said  I.  "  It  does 
not  seem  to  me  as  though  Boston  folks  had 
any  real  home.  Your  houses  are  all  just 
alike,  and  there  are  no  trees  and  flowers  and 
grass  and  a  big  piece  of  all  out-of-doors  for 
you." 

"  I  do  understand,"  she  answered  with  un 
wonted  gentleness.  "  Do  you  think  that  I 
can  live,  day  after  day,  in  my  own  lost  home 
and  not  feel  its  influence?  Morbid  memories 


PENH  ALLOW  53 

have  kept  Madam  Penhallow's  descendants 
from  New  Hampshire  until  now;  but  I  have 
always  felt  towards  it  the  genuine  love  for  the 
fatherland.  They  say  that  nothing  could  keep 
Madam  Penhallow  long  away  from  her  home. 
I  have  always  maintained  that  she  and  I  had 
much  in  common." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Sarah,"  remonstrated  Mr. 
Penhallow.  "  The  only  resemblance  between 
you  is  in  your  appearance." 

"  And  that  must  have  diminished  if  I  am 
as  '  peaked '  as  Mrs.  Wason  says  I  am,"  she 
laughed.  "  See,"  holding  out  her  left  hand 
to  me,  "  when  I  was  married  I  insisted  that 
my  wedding-ring  should  be  the  same  that  the 
Penhallow  women  used  to  have  —  a  bit  of 
granite.  It  does  not  fit  my  finger  as  well  as 
it  once  did." 

"  You  must  not  stay  longer  in  this  damp 
place,"  urged  her  husband.  "Sarah,  don't!  " 
For,  as  though  in  defiance  of  his  words,  she 
had  sunk  on  her  knees  in  the  wet  grass  and 
was  bending  forward  to  scoop  up  some  water 
with  her  hands. 

"  This  is  the  way,"  I  said,  and  pinned  an 
oak  leaf  together  in  the  form  of  a  cup,  which 
she  filled  and  handed  to  Mr.  Penhallow.  She 
knelt  till  she  had  filled  the  cup  again  and  sat 
isfied  her  own  thirst. 

Harry  had  just  turned  into  the  driveway  on 


54  TALES 

his  return  from  his  rounds  as  we  approached 
the  house  again.  The  folks  who  now  lived 
there  were  a  young  married  couple,  who 
made  me  free  to  come  home  whenever  I 
pleased.  The  woman  was  standing  in  the 
doorway. 

"We're  jest  a-settin'  down  to  breakfus," 
said  she,  in  greeting.  "  Hadn't  yer  better  come 
in  an'  hev  some  ?  Yer  must  be  hungry  after 
yer  ride." 

"  Let  us  go  in,  Mac.  I  want  to  breakfast 
in  the  queer  little  house,"  said  Mrs.  Penhal- 
low,  eagerly. 

They  insisted  that  I  should  have  the  place 
of  honor  at  the  table.  Mrs.  Penhallow  ate 
heartily,  and  nobody  would  ever  have  known 
but  that  she  was  being  entertained  in  the 
house  of  one  of  her  own  friends. 

We  finished  the  meal  at  last,  and  Harry 
went  to  unhitch  the  horse.  Our  hands  were 
full  of  flowers  as  we  again  clambered  to  our 
seats  in  the  wagon. 

"  We  shall  not  forget  our  visit,"  called 
Mrs.  Penhallow  as  we  started  down  the 
steep  driveway,  our  host  and  hostess  smil 
ing  good-by  to  us  from  the  doorway.  "  We 
will  come  again  next  summer  and  breakfast 
together." 

But  that  never  came  to  pass.  When  one 
day,  the  following  year,  I  sat  again  as  hostess 


PENHALLOW  55 

in  the  little  kitchen,  twovof  those  who  had  been 
with  us  on  that  sunny  July  morning  had  gone, 
never  to  return. 


IX. 


FOR  the  next  few  days  Mrs.  Penhallowwas 
ill.  The  exposure  in  the  wet  grass,  together 
with  the  jolting  ride  and  the  unaccustomed 
food  at  breakfast,  combined  to  bring  on  a 
feverish  condition,  from  which  she  was  some 
time  in  rallying.  The  illness  left  its  effect  in 
neuralgic  attacks  that  were  sharper  and  more 
frequent  than  ever. 

The  ladies  had  been  for  some  time  past 
planning  a  hop.  Caterers  from  Boston  were 
to  take  charge,  and  Mrs.  Wason  had  consented 
to  let  the  old  ball-room  be  restored,  for  that 
evening,  to  its  original  purpose.  Mrs.  Pen- 
hallow  threw  herself  into  every  project,  and 
was  the  acknowledged  leader  in  all. 

No  one,  however,  knew  the  agony  she  en 
dured,  least  of  all  her  husband.  In  his  pres 
ence  all  indication  of  pain  was  suppressed.  I 
never  knew  how  much  of  this  concealment  was 
due  to  the  exercise  of  her  will  and  the  desire 

—  that  had  its  root  mainly  in  a  morbid  fancy 

—  always  to  appear  her  loveliest  before  him, 
and  how  much  to  a  keenly  susceptible  nervous 
temperament,  upon  which    excitement    may 


56  TALES 

have  been  a  tonic  more  potent  than  quinine 
or  aconite.  But  it  was  not  worth  while  to 
play  a  part  before  me. 

The  folks  were  making  a  great  ado  deco 
rating  the  ball-room.  Mr.  Wason  drove  some 
of  them  in  his  hay-cart  to  the  woods,  where 
they  picnicked  and  remained  till  late  in  the 
afternoon,  returning  with  a  load  of  evergreen, 
boxberries,  and  ferns.  The  wash-tubs  were 
to  be  filled  with  moss  and  young  spruces,  and 
the  ironing-tables  to  be  banked  with  flowers, 
for  which  the  country  around  was  scoured. 
Mrs.  Penhallow  was  with  the  picnicking  party, 
although  she  had  been  suffering  terribly  be 
fore  she  started.  When  I  went  to  her  room 
after  her  return,  I  found  her  kneeling  by  the 
side  of  the  bed,  her  face  buried  in  her  out 
stretched  arms. 

"  It  is  past  help,"  she  answered  impa 
tiently,  when  I  wanted  to  summon  the  doctor. 
"  It  is  intolerable.  Life  is  not  worth  living 
at  this  price." 

But  when,  half  an  hour  later,  the  gong 
sounded  and  she  came  into  the  dining-room 
with  her  husband,  there  was  not  a  trace  of 
suffering  on  her  face. 

Nothing  was  talked  about  but  the  hop. 
There  were  a  good  many  differences  of 
opinion  regarding  the  arrangements,  out  of 
which  sprang  much  ill-feeling.  One  lady 


PENH  ALLOW  57 

wanted  the  hall  draped  with  flags,  and  was 
offended  because  somebody  else  said  that  it 
was  not  to  be  a  militia  turn-out ;  and  as  the 
first  lady's  husband  was  in  the  militia — she 
always  addressed  him  as  "  Colonel "  —  she 
thought  she  was  insulted,  and  would  not 
have  anything  more  to  do  with  the  affair. 
Then  several  of  the  young  ladies  arranged  in 
the  corners  bunches  of  cat-tails,  tied  up  with 
gay  ribbons,  and  the  children  had  a  fine  time 
picking  the  down  off  the  tails.  Bits  of  fuzz 
were  all  over  the  house  and  on  everybody's 
gowns  for  days  after,  and  the  ladies  who  had 
children,  and  those  who  had  not,  were  ranged 
in  opposing  factions.  Then  some  of  the 
ladies  who  had  been  gathering  ferns  took  a 
short  cut  home,  with  the  result  of  losing  their 
way  in  a  swamp ;  the  next  day  most  of  their 
number  were  afflicted  with  severe  colds,  and 
were  worried  because  they  were  afraid  that 
their  eyes  and  noses  would  not  be  reduced  in 
time  to  their  proper  color  and  dimensions. 
The  cook  scolded  because  all  the  sour  milk 
was  used  to  anoint  the  burnt  faces ;  Mr. 
Wason  grumbled  because  everybody  ex 
pected  him  to  be  at  beck  and  call,  chopping 
down  trees  and  nailing  up  wreaths ;  and  Mrs. 
Wason  declared  a  dozen  times  a  day  that  it 
was  "  pesky  nonsense  lit'rin'  up  the  wash 
room  with  all  that  green  truck." 


58  TALES 

Three  or  four  days  before  the  evening,  Mr. 
Penhallow  found  it  would  be  necessary  for 
him  to  be  absent  a  few  days.  As  usual,  Mrs. 
Penhallow  begged  him  not  to  go.  What  did 
she  care  for  the  hop  if  he  were  not  there  ?  He 
tried  to  comfort  her  by  pointing  out  that  his 
absence  could  not  have  occurred  at  a  better 
time  than  when  she  was  engrossed  with  these 
multitudinous  preparations,  and  promised 
that  he  would  be  back  in  time  for  the  ball, 
even  if  he  had  to  come  by  a  special  train. 
Her  only  reply  was  that  she  took  no  interest 
in  anything  if  he  was  not  by  her  side. 

On  the  morning  of  his  departure  she  had 
on  a  travelling-suit;  I  supposed  that  they  had 
settled  the  vexed  question  by  her  accom 
panying  him  on  his  journey.  But  in  half 
an  hour  there  was  a  well-known  peal  of  the 
bell.  Mrs.  Penhallow  wanted  some  hot 
water.  She  had  evidently  been  indulging  in 
a  good  cry,  her  stratagem  of  keeping  her 
husband  company  having  failed. 

The  latest  project  in  regard  to  the  hop  was 
to  have  it  resemble  the  anniversary  ball  that 
had  been  given  every  year  at  the  Place  by 
Madam  Penhallow.  Even  the  date  was  to  be 
the  same.  Then  when  somebody  suggested 
that  Mrs.  Penhallow  ought  to  play  the  part  of 
lady  of  the  manor,  the  idea  was  received  with 
acclamation.  But  after  this  fresh  impetus  to 


PENH  ALLOW  59 

the  general  interest  there  came  a  lull.  The 
weather  was  hot,  the  mistress  of  ceremonies 
had  evidently  lost  all  interest  in  the  affair,  and 
the  disappointments  about  the  costumes  were 
innumerable.  The  ladies  who  were  so  fortu 
nate  as  to  own  old-fashioned  gowns  sent  for 
them,  Mrs.  Penhallow  being  among  the  num 
ber  ;  the  others  tried  to  borrow  from  friends, 
but  with  everybody  out  of  town  that  was  not 
an  easy  matter  to  arrange.  Then  there  was 
another  falling-out  over  the  question,  "  Should 
masks  be  worn?  "  Those  who  had  colds  in 
their  heads  were  loud  in  their  favor,  while 
the  proposition  was  scouted  by  the  ones  who 
had  escaped  influenza.  The  decision  finally 
reached  was  that  everybody  should  suit  her 
self,  and  go  masked  or  not ;  with  which  set 
tlement  of  the  vexed  question  neither  party 
was  satisfied. 

The  day  before  the  ball  Mrs.  Penhallow 
sent  for  me  and  showed  me  her  gown ;  it  was 
Madam  Penhallow's  own  wedding-dress. 

"  I  take  so  little  interest  in  the  whole  affair 
that  I  have  only  just  unpacked  this,"  she  said. 
"  If  I  had  not  agreed  to  play  hostess,  I  would 
not  appear  at  all.  The  lace  is  torn  here  and 
there  —  look  at  the  frightful  rent  in  the  veil 
—  and  there  is  no  time  to  send  to  Boston. 
Do  you  suppose  you  could  mend  it?  " 

My  grandmother's    instructions  had    been 


60  TALES 

thorough,  but  there  proved  to  be  more  work 
than  one  pair  of  hands  could  accomplish 
alone.  "  If  I  might  take  it  home,  mother  and 
I  could  work  on  it  together,"  I  suggested. 

"  Go  at  once,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Penhallow ; 
"  I  will  speak  to  Mrs.  Wason.  You  will  not 
disappoint  me?  " 

"  I  will  bring  it  to  you  early  to-morrow 
evening,"  I  promised. 

"  The  gloves,  too,  may  need  mending.  I 
want  to  wear  the  whole  costume,"  she  added, 
and  went  to  the  bureau  for  the  articles  in 
question.  With  her  impatient  pull  at  the 
gloves,  from  out  the  confusion  of  the  drawer 
a  little  round  box  fell  to  the  floor  and  rolled 
to  my  feet.  I  picked  it  up  and  was  about  to 
replace  it,  when,  to  my  surprise,  Mrs.  Pen- 
hallow  snatched  it  from  my  hand.  But  not 
before  I  had  seen  the  inscription  on  the  label, 
below  a  little  cut  of  a  death's-head. 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  I  cried.  "  If  you  only 
knew  "  — 

"  If  I  only  knew  !  "  she  repeated,  mockingly, 
in  the  high-pitched  tones  in  which  she  had 
before  given  vent  to  her  irritation.  "  What 
is  the  matter  now?"  she  added  abruptly,  for 
at  the  familiarity  of  her  unfamiliar  voice  my 
heart  almost  seemed  to  still  its  beating,  my 
tongue  had  become  dry  and  parched.  I  felt 
as  though  I  were  on  the  verge  of  a  precipice, 


PENH  ALLOW  61 

and  then  —  the  mist  had  shut  out  everything 
again.  Instinctively  I  put  out  my  hand  like 
a  blind  person's. 

Mrs.  Penhallow  went  on,  in  calmer  tones : 

"  Are  you  going  to  preach  the  doctrine  of 
milk  and  early  to  bed,  too?  I  shall  not  die 
from  morphine ;  they  even  say  that  the  habit 
tends  to  prolong  life  —  unfortunately,  I  often 
think,  for  I  am  growing  more  cadaverous  and 
ugly  every  day."  She  pushed  her  hair  from 
her  face  and  regarded  herself  critically  in  the 
mirror.  " '  Better  be  dead  than  ugly,'  said 
Madame  Recamier,  and  she  was  right." 

In  the  morning  I  came  over  to  the  Place 
to  assure  her  that  my  mother  and  I  had  al 
ready  made  considerable  progress  in  repairing 
the  lace.  She  was  on  the  lounge  in  the  dress 
ing-room,  white  and  spent  with  pain. 

"  I  should  not  care  if  you  were  unable  to 
finish  the  work,"  she  said  languidly;  and 
then,  talking  more  to  herself  than  to  me,  she 
went  on : 

"  I  am  fairly  weighed  down  with  a  sense  of 
impending  evil.  She  drove  her  daughter 
Elizabeth  to  her  death  for  having  usurped 
her  place  in  her  husband's  love.  I  have  come 
into  her  home.  I  have  slept  beneath  her 
roof,  in  her  very  room.  I  have  usurped  her 
name,  her  features,  her  character.  To-night 
I  am  to  take  the  final  step." 


62  TALES 

There  she  was,  running  on  again  about 
ghosts  and  presentiments.  I  never  stopped 
to  draw  breath  till  I  was  out  of  the  house.  I 
was  so  frightened  and  worried  at  her  strange 
words  that  I  repeated  them  to  mother  as  we 
sat  with  our  needles  over  the  injured  lace. 

"  Lor',  child,"  said  she,  "  that's  dyspepsy. 
It's  jes  the  way  yer  Aunt  Elmiry  takes  on. 
Yer'd  think  as  how  she  didn't  calkerlate  ter 
live  another  minute." 

But  my  mind  was  not  set  at  rest. 

It  was  an  intensely  hot  day,  and  every  door 
and  window  was  wide  open.  On  the  steps 
old  Sally  Waters  sat,  as  usual,  shrieking  her 
terror.  Of  late  she  had  been  more  restless 
and  unmanageable  than  ever. 

Our  task  was  completed  at  dusk.  Mother 
would  return  presently  to  fold  the  gown,  in 
readiness  for  me  to  take  to  the  Place ;  but 
now  she  must  hurry  to  the  dining-room,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  house,  for  there  was  to 
be  blueberry  pie  for  supper,  and  it  would 
need  all  her  authority  to  keep  the  paupers 
within  bounds. 

I  hastened  to  my  room.  The  maids  were 
also  to  wear  old-fashioned  costumes,  and  my 
dress  was  one  of  my  great-grandmother's —  a 
bright  figured  muslin  with  the  waist  under  the 
armpits.  I  spent  a  long  time  before  the  look 
ing-glass,  wondering  how  Harry  would  like 


PENHALLOW  63 

me  in  my  new-old  array.  I  started  at  hear 
ing  the  clock  strike  nine,  for  the  dancing  was 
to  begin  at  that  hour,  and  Mrs.  Penhallow  was 
without  her  gown. 

In  the  entry  below  I  ran  into  Harry's  arms. 

"  Aren't  you  coming  ?  "  said  he.  "  Oh,  how 
nice  you  look  !  " 

"  Do  you  really  like  me  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Like  you  !  "  he  repeated,  with  emphasis. 
"  There  will  be  no  one  there  who  will  look 
as  nice.  Come  !  They  are  marching  around 
the  room  now.  You  never  saw  anything  so 
splendid." 

"  What  has  Mrs.  Penhallow  done  without 
her  gown?"  I  exclaimed. 

"  Mrs.  Penhallow  has  been  there  this  half- 
hour  at  the  head  of  the  room." 

Impatient  at  the  delay,  she  had  evidently 
sent  for  the  dress,  and  mother  must  have  given 
it  to  the  messenger.  A  glance  at  the  empty 
table  where  an  hour  before  the  robes  had  been 
outspread  confirmed  the  surmise.  So,  gather 
ing  up  my  gown  in  one  hand,  I  gave  the  other 
hand  to  Harry,  and  we  raced  up  the  hill  and 
down  again  on  the  other  side,  and  ran,  breath 
less,  up  the  piazza,  steps  to  ensconce  ourselves 
near  one  of  the  long  open  windows,  hidden 
from  view  behind  the  screen  of  metamorphosed 
wash-tubs. 


64  TALES 


X. 


HER  gown  fitted  Mrs.  Penhallow  as  though 
it  had  been  made  for  her.  She  wore  no  mask, 
but  the  heavy  veil,  drawn  over  her  face,  as 
effectively  concealed  her  features.  Mr.  Pen- 
hallow  was  not  present,  and  it  was  not  difficult 
to  understand  why  the  hostess  had  elected  to 
appear,  after  all,  with  masked  face.  She  de 
clined  to  dance,  but  moved  about,  at  intervals, 
among  her  guests.  Every  one  noticed  how  her 
head  turned  restlessly  towards  the  entrance, 
and  that  her  answers  to  any  attempted  con 
versation  were  singularly  irrelevant.  Naturally 
every  one  remarked : 

"  Mr.  Penhallow  will  be  here,  I  hope?  " 

"  Yes,  he  is  coming.  He  promised  me  that 
he  would  come,"  was  the  reply  to  all  alike. 

But  the  ten  o'clock  train  arrived  without 
bringing  him.  Mrs.  Penhallow  now  seemed 
to  avoid  every  one,  and,  as  though  her  gloom 
were  infectious,  a  chill  had  fallen  upon  the 
whole  company.  Harry  and  I  could  see  how 
listlessly  they  moved  through  waltz  and  quad 
rille,  and  how  they  resolved  into  couples  and 
groups  as  soon  as  each  dance  was  at  an  end, 
keeping  an  anxious  eye  upon  the  door  while 
they  made  pretence  at  conversation.  Could 


PENHALLOW  65 

any  accident  have  happened  to  Mr.  Penhal- 
low?  Their  uneasiness,  as  well  as  mine,  may 
have  taken  that  form. 

The  whistle  of  the  eleven  o'clock  train 
pierced  the  still  summer  night.  Harry  and 
I  could  see  that  somebody  had  stepped  out 
at  the  station ;  that  a  man's  figure  was  racing 
across  the  lawn,  which,  as  it  came  within  the 
radius  of  light  from  the  portico,  proved  un 
mistakably  to  be  that  of  Mr.  Penhallow.  We 
heard  his  footsteps  upon  the  stairs  and  then 
the  door  of  his  room  close.  Supper  was  to 
be  served  at  twelve  o'clock,  when  the  masks 
were  to  be  removed. 

There  was  a  sudden  stir  in  the  ball-room, 
a  cessation  of  the  buzz  of  conversation,  and  a 
sigh  of  relief  that  was  distinctly  audible,  com 
ing,  as  it  did,  from  all  present,  for  the  glances 
towards  the  door  were  at  last  rewarded. 
Mrs.  Penhallow  was  hastening  to  meet  her 
husband. 

He  was  arrayed  in  knee-breeches  and  black 
silk  stockings,  with  low  shoes  clasped  by  dia 
mond  buckles.  With  his  ruffled  shirt,  the 
long  lace  ruffles  that  fell  over  his  hands,  the 
fair,  curly  wig  with  its  cue  tied  up  with  a 
black  ribbon,  even  his  mustache  gone  that 
he  might  better  play  his  part,  he  looked 
to  perfection  the  gallant  gentleman  of  the 
early  century,  and  handsome  enough  to 
s 


66  TALES 

have  won  any  woman's  heart.  Husband  and 
wife  met  by  the  window  outside  of  which  we 
stood. 

She  held  out  both  her  hands. 

"  I  knew  you  would  not  fail  me,  Mac,"  she 
said  softly. 

"  Not  if  human  means  could  have  pre 
vented,  darling.  I  was  sorry  that  I  could  not 
get  here  before." 

"  The  time  has  been  long,  love.  And  I 
was  sorrowful,  thinking  of  our  parting.  It 
was  all  my  fault,  Mac.  I  could  not  rest  till 
I  had  begged  for  your  forgiveness.  I  could 
not  sleep,  even  in  the  grave,  unless  I  knew 
that  you  had  forgiven  me." 

"  My  darling,  if  all  mortal  sin  were  summed 
up  against  you,  it  would  be  outweighed  by 
my  love.  I  have  wished  more  than  once 
that  I  had  answered  you  more  gently,  and 
had  said  good-by  that  last  morning  less 
abruptly.  It  was  hard,  love,  to  be  left  all 
alone  in  this  great  house." 

"  It  was  indeed  empty  without  you." 

"  Not  a  moment  has  passed  that  I  did  not 
long  to  be  at  your  side  again." 

"  Kiss  me,  Mac." 

"  What  —  here  ?    Before  all  these  people  ?  ' ' 

Accustomed  as  he  was  to  her  lofty  disre 
gard  of  comment,  he  was  somewhat  taken 
aback  by  this  sudden  demand. 


PENHALLOW  67 

"  There  is  only  one  person  in  the  room  to 
me,  but  one  to  you." 

He  solved  the  dilemma  by  sinking  on  one 
knee  and  raising  her  hand  to  his  lips.  He 
retained  the  clasp  as  he  arose. 

"  Your  disguise  is  easily  penetrated,"  he 
said  gayly.  "  Your  ring  would  tell  tales,  if 
nothing  else  did.  I  thought  you  were  not  to 
mask.  There  are  those  who  need  it  more." 

"  But  if  I  were  one  of  those  who  wore  a 
mask  with  cause,  would  you  —  love  me  less, 
Mac?  " 

"  I  cannot  fancy  you  other  than  as  you 
are." 

But  she  pressed  the  question. 

"  You  would  care  for  me  the  same  even 
though  my  beauty  had  become  a  thing  of  the 
past?" 

"  If  I  were  absent  a  hundred  years  it  could 
make  no  difference  in  my  love,  except  to  in 
crease  it  a  hundred  fold." 

The  answer  seemed  to  satisfy  her. 

"  Let  us  stay  here,"  she  said  softly.  "  I 
have  not  felt  my  hand  in  yours  for  so  long." 

Presently  she  saw  me,  in  the  dark,  with 
out. 

"You  are  here,  Martina?"  she  said. 
"  You  did  well  to  have  my  gown  in  readi 
ness  ;  I  could  have  worn  nothing  else." 

Her  voice,  muffled  though  it  was,  sounded 


68  TALES 

sharper  than  its  wont,  except  as  I  had 
heard  it  in  occasional  moments  of  pain  or 
irritation,  and  the  tones  brought  with  them 
the  inexplicable  weight  of  misery  with  which 
they  seemed  always  freighted.  I  had  fancied 
my  uneasiness  would  be  over  with  Mr.  Pen- 
hallow's  return. 

The  last  waltz  had  come  to  an  end.  The 
company  were  dispersed  about  the  room, 
waiting  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Penhallow  to  lead 
them  to  the  supper-room.  On  a  sudden 
thought  I  ran  around  to  the  portico  to  see 
the  company  march  down  the  staircase. 

The  air  was  resonant  with  the  hum  of 
voices  and  the  softened  strains  of  the  band. 
The  leading  couple  were  crossing  the  hall 
below,  when  there  suddenly  appeared  on  the 
threshold  of  the  supper-room  a  familiar  face 
and  form. 

Was  it  a  hideous  dream  ?  Were  all  in  that 
throng  petrified  in  a  nightmare,  too,  as  they 
gazed  at  the  figure  that  was  confronting  the 
stately  couple  who  were  leading  the  pageant? 

It  was  Mrs.  Penhallow. 

There  she  stood,  with  one  arm  slightly  up 
raised,  and  upon  the  third  finger  of  its  hand 
there  glittered  the  granite  ring.  Her  white 
gown  clung  to  her  like  grave  cerements. 
Her  face  was  pale  and  sunken  and  her  eyes 
were  dimmed  and  heavy,  wide  open  though 


PENHALLOW  69 

they  were  in  their  fierce,  fixed  gaze  at  that 
strange  woman  by  her  husband's  side. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  a  shriek,  and 
then  a  long,  piercing,  blood-curdling  wail : 

"  Elizabeth !  " 

The  figure  that  had  borne  its  share  in  the 
evening's  festivity  had  dropped  the  clutch  on 
its  companion's  arm  and  darted  through  the 
open  door  into  the  darkness  without.  The 
heavy  robes,  the  fluttering  lace,  brushed 
against  me.  The  veil  was  torn  aside. 

And  I  saw  what  it  had  concealed. 

Through  the  night,  as  the  flying  figure 
passed  me,  came  the  words : 

"  The  witches  are  after  me  !  The  witches 
are  after  me  !  " 


XI. 


I  ENTERED  the  poorhouse  and  staggered 
towards  my  mother's  room.  There  was  a  light 
inside.  At  the  sound  of  my  voice  my  father 
came  to  the  door. 

"  Where  is  she?  "  I  gasped. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  he  questioned. 

"  Where  is  she?"  I  repeated. 

"  Old  Sally  Waters  roused  us  jes  now  by  her 
shrieks  at  the  door.  How  did  she  git  hold  of 
that  dress?  " 

"Where  is  she  —  where  is  she?"  I  panted. 


70  TALES 

"  Don't  ask  me  anything  now.  Let  me  go 
to  her ;  "  and  I  freed  myself  from  his  grasp 
to  hurry  to  the  room  at  the  end  of  the  cor 
ridor. 

There  she  lay  on  her  bed  of  straw,  the  rich 
gown  outspread  in  its  length  of  train  on  the 
unpainted  floor.  Her  staring  eyeballs  gleamed 
in  ghastly  unconsciousness  through  their  half- 
closed  lids. 

My  mother  was  trying  to  place  a  bedspread 
over  her,  but,  as  though  she  disdained  the  ugly 
calico  coverlid,  it  was  automatically  pushed 
aside  again  and  again.  I  sank  on  the  chair  by 
the  bedside  and  buried  my  face  in  my  hands. 
Mother  and  father  stood  by  the  door,  whis 
pering  their  conjectures.  Once  and  again  one 
of  them  would  come  to  the  bedside  and  scan 
the  dying  woman's  face,  but  there  seemed  to 
be  no  change  in  her  condition.  Life  was  so 
plainly  at  its  lowest  ebb  that  it  was  not  worth 
while  to  call  the  doctor. 

On  the  floor  near  by  was  the  leather  string, 
knotted  about  a  bit  of  gray  flannel  that  the 
old  woman  had  worn  around  her  neck.  I 
picked  it  up  mechanically.  In  the  rag  a  small 
circle  was  almost  worn  through,  and  in  a  clus 
ter  were  two  or  three  tiny  holes.  A  few  silky 
golden  hairs  clung  to  the  rag. 

The  little  blue  chest  at  the  head  of  the  bed 
was  open.  Could  the  rags  it  contained,  with 


PENH  ALLOW  71 

their  loathsome  contents,  have  been  a  tally  by 
which  reckoning  had  been  kept  of  the  depart 
ing  years?  Had  the  sight  of  the  wedding- 
gown  been  the  shock  that  had  served  to  unite 
old  associations,  and,  sending  all  the  life  yet 
left  in  the  withered  frame  spinning  and  reeling 
to  the  head,  enabled  the  once  iron  will  to  make 
its  last  mortal  effort? 

The  minutes  crept  slowly  on  till  that  time 
when  death  comes  oftenest.  The  dying  wom 
an's  eyes  were  suddenly  opened.  They  met 
mine.  She  raised  her  right  hand  and  placed  it 
upon  her  left  as  it  lay  upon  her  breast,  thus 
covering  the  granite  ring. 

"  I  understand,"  I  whispered. 

A  minute  later  the  breathing  ceased. 

"  Let  her  lie  as  she  is,"  I  said,  when  mother 
would  have  disrobed  her,  "  till  I  have  told 
Mrs.  Penhallow." 

Some  boys  were  going  past  the  poorhouse, 
bound  on  an  early  fishing  excursion.  Their 
mocking  chant  floated  in  to  us : 

"  Rise,  Sally,  rise, 
Wipe  off  your  eyes !  " 


72  TALES 


XII. 

AT  the  Place  everything  was  in  confusion. 
The  halls  were  piled  high  with  baggage,  and 
ladies  and  children  were  standing  about  in 
travelling  array.  In  the  kitchen  there  was  an 
excited  group. 

"Did  you  know — have  you  heard?"  was 
the  general  exclamation  as  I  entered.  "  Every 
body  is  going,  and  Mrs.  Wason  is  at  her  wits' 
end." 

"  Have  the  PenTiallows  gone?  " 

"  They  are  going  on  the  noon  train.  Most 
of  the  ladies  fainted  or  had  hysterics.  One 
woman  declared  that  she  saw  the  figure  whom 
we  all  thought  was  Mrs.  Penhallow  running 
over  the  hill  towards  the  graveyard,  and  "  — 
the  girl  lowered  her  voice  and  glanced  ner 
vously  over  her  shoulder  —  "  as  true  as  you 
live,  Mr.  Wason  found  the  veil  this  morning, 
as  he  was  driving  the  cows  to  pasture,  half 
way  up  the  hill." 

"  Mrs.  Wason  says  it  was  somebody  play 
ing  a  trick  on  us." 

"  It  was  Mrs.  Penhallow  or  her  double  who 
was  in  the  ball-room  last  night,"  cried  another, 
argumentatively. 

Without  waiting  to  hear  the  end  of  the  dis- 


PENHALLOW  73 

cussion,  or  rather  its  progress,  for  the  end 
was  never  reached,  I  hastened  to  Mrs.  Pen- 
hallow's  room. 

She  was  in  bed,  and  her  husband  was 
seated  near  by,  with  an  expression  upon  his 
face  that  would  have  been  sternness  in  a  less 
gentle  nature.  Here,  too,  I  had  evidently 
interrupted  a  discussion  the  nature  of  which 
was  the  same  as  that  going  on  downstairs. 

"  Did  you  see  it?"  questioned  Mrs.  Pen- 
hallow,  with  a  shudder. 

I  told  them  the  inner  meaning  of  the  story 
which  dated  back  eighty  years.  When  I  had 
ended,  I  was  not  crying  alone. 

"  Let  her  be  buried  in  her  wedding  gown," 
said  Mrs.  Penhallow ;  "  she  will  rest  better  so." 

"You  did  not  send  for  the  dress,  then?  "  I 
asked. 

"  No.  Soon  after  you  left  me  I  took  some 
morphine.  I  had  lately  outgrown  the  influ 
ence  of  even  largely  increased  quantities,  and, 
indifferent  to  the  risk  of  an  overdose,  I  meant 
to  take  enough  to  insure  escape  from  pain. 
Don't  blame  me  too  much,  Mac.  I  have 
promised  never  to  touch  the  horrible  drug 
again.  There  was  nobody  to  awake  me 
through  the  day,  for  every  one  was  resting  in 
preparation  for  the  evening.  Even  Mr.  Pen- 
hallow's  movements  in  the  next  room  failed 
to  arouse  me. 


74  TALES 

"  When  I  at  last  recovered  consciousness 
my  gown  was  damp  with  the  dew  from  the 
open  window.  I  was  so  dizzy  and  confused 
and  so  deathly  sick  that  I  did  not  realize 
what  I  had  done  or  what  was  going  on  below. 
My  only  thought  was  that  supper  was  ready 
and  that  I  must  hurry  to  meet  Mr.  Penhallow. 

"Time  seemed  to  have  turned  backward 
and  I  was  the  daughter  whom  the  mother 
was  driving  to  her  death.  The  horror  of  the 
river  to  which  she  had  at  last  succeeded  in 
forcing  me  was  upon  me,  my  name  rang  in 
my  ears,  the  phantasmagoria  swam  before 
my  eyes,  and  that  was  all  I  knew  till  I  awoke 
and  found  myself  here." 

By  noon  that  day  Penhallow  Place  was  de 
serted,  nor  was  there  ever  again  any  one 
bold  enough  to  try  the  experiment  of  utiliz 
ing  it  as  a  hotel. 

It  was  in  the  following  spring  that  I  wrote 
to  Mrs.  Penhallow  about  my  marriage,  and 
how  Harry  had  said  that  it  was  on  that  morn 
ing  in  my  old  home  when  he  had  first  thought 
how  pleasant  it  would  be  always  to  sit  at  the 
table  where  I  poured  the  tea. 

In  her  reply  she  said  that  she  was  now  in 
perfect  health.  Inclosed,  a  wedding  present 
from  her  husband  and  herself,  was  the  deed 
of  the  little  rocky  farm. 


A   MENTAL   PRINCESS 
I. 

OLIVER  DALLAS  was  coming  over  the 
ledges  at  full  speed,  jumping  where  he 
could  not  run,  and  now  and  again,  at  some 
"  drop "  in  the  path,  catching  hold  of  an 
overhanging  branch  and  swinging  himself 
down  with  an  agility  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  an  acrobat.  He  was  singing  at  the 
top  of  his  voice —  not  such  a  song  as  might 
have  been  expected  from  a  Professor  of  Com 
parative  Philology  —  a  chant,  for  instance,  of 
the  chorus  in  "  Antigone,"  as  the  play  had 
been  rendered  last  winter  under  his  advice 
and  supervision. 

He  was  familiar  with  the  Greek  of  Homer, 
the  Sanskrit  of  the  Vedas,  the  Umbrian  of 
the  Inguevin  Inscriptions ;  he  could  have 
given  the  different  forms  of  a  word  in  San 
skrit,  Zend,  Doric,  Lithuanian,  Old  Slav,  Latin, 
Gothic,  and  Armen,  and  its  root  in  the  mother 
Aryan.  But  by  whom  or  at  what  era  that 
verse  he  was  singing  was  composed,  he  was 


76  TALES 

as  ignorant  as  the  gamin  whose  rendering 
his  trained  memory  had  unconsciously  jotted 
down: 

Oh,  Brian  O'Lynn  and  his  wife  and  his  mother, 

All  went  over  the  bridge  together; 

The  bridge  broke  down  and  they  all  fell  in. 

"There's  ground  at  the  bottom,"  says  Brian  O'Lynn! 

Perhaps  the  bracing  air  had  acted  as  an 
intoxicant  upon  a  system  more  than  ordina 
rily  sensitive ;  perhaps  his  youth  was  all  at 
once  asserting  itself  after  having  been  held  in 
abeyance  for  twenty-seven  years,  and,  now 
that  reaction  had  set  in,  carried  him  outside 
of  the  Oliver  Dallas  that  the  grave  little  world 
of  professors  and  students  knew.  It  would 
have  failed  to  recognize  even  the  outer  man. 

His  coat  showed  the  results  of  his  scram 
ble  ;  the  brim  of  his  hat  was  rent  from  the 
crown,  owing  to  the  vigor  with  which  it 
had  been  pulled  over  his  head  on  the 
mountain-top ;  his  face  was  unkempt  with 
a  three  days'  beard,  and  his  inseparable  eye 
glasses  were  missing,  having  been  caught  in 
an  overhanging  branch  that  broke  the  bow, 
and  he  had  no  other  pair  nearer  than  the 
hotel,  to  which  his  portmanteau  had  been 
forwarded. 

Some  weeks  ago,  Dallas  had  been  appointed 
delegate  from  his  university  to  a  convention 


A   MENTAL   PRINCESS  77 

of  librarians.  The  honor  was  gratifying,  but 
the  pleasure  small ;  for  not  only  was  the  call 
an  interruption  of  his  work,  but  the  con 
vention  was  to  be  held,  at  the  height  of  the 
season,  at  one  of  the  large  mountain  hotels. 

A  hard  student  before  he  was  out  of  petti 
coats,  Dallas  had  given  throughout  his  boy 
hood  neither  time  nor  thought  to  other 
pleasures  than  those  afforded  by  his  studies. 
At  college  the  same  course  was  pursued.  A 
new  language,  particularly  one  so  old  that 
ordinary  mortals  did  not  even  know  of  its 
fossil  remains,  had  more  charms  for  him  than 
the  various  societies.  While  the  men  of  his 
class  were  exciting  themselves  over  some 
inter-collegiate  boat  race,  he  was  poring  over 
treatises  and  thumbing  lexicons ;  the  latest 
views  in  linguistics  had  more  interest  for  him 
than  the  result  of  the  last  base-ball  match. 
While  still  in  his  teens,  he  was  a  correspond 
ent  of  noted  specialists  in  philology,  and 
had  contributed  articles  on  this  subject  to 
various  German  learned  journals.  He  had 
lived  so  much,  indeed,  in  the  remote  past  that 
his  ignorance  of  the  present  was  as  complete 
as  might  have  been  that  of  one  of  his  beloved 
Aryans. 

Although  keeping  aloof  from  athletics  as 
an  amusement,  he  had  practised  in  the  gym 
nasium  with  painstaking  care,  had  never 


78  TALES 

allowed  work  to  interfere  with  sleep,  and  was 
as  rigid  in  his  diet  as  though  under  the  most 
scientific  training ;  so  that  he  possessed  the 
first  requisite  of  the  highest  intellectual  vigor, 
in  being  a  good  animal.  His  ignorance  of 
the  world,  while  it  left  him  without  much  that 
was  essential  to  a  well-rounded  development, 
had  combined  with  the  absolute  healthfulness 
of  his  physical  constitution  to  give  him  a 
purity  of  nature  that  made  him  shrink  from 
all  things  mean  or  uncleanly  with  an  intensity 
at  times  verging  upon  the  finical. 

He  had  reached  the  end  of  the  woods,  and, 
without  warning,  plunged  headlong  into  a 
gathering  of  people.  For  an  instant  he  stood 
dumbfounded. 

Before  him  were  several  low,  round  tents. 
Two  or  three  wagons  stood  near;  groups  of 
children  were  playing  about;  a  youth  was 
bringing  an  armful  of  sticks  to  a  fire  from 
which  arose  a  smell  of  frying.  A  knot  of 
women,  engaged  in  basket-weaving,  ceased 
their  occupation  to  stare  at  the  new-comer, 
who  had  dropped  from  the  sky  with  loud 
words  of  ribald  song ;  while  several  men  in 
corduroy  trowsers  and  red  neckties  turned 
toward  him  a  scrutiny  in  which,  if  there  was 
no  welcome,  there  was  yet  nothing  of  enmity. 
A  black  hound,  which  had  been  dozing  by 
the  fire,  gazed  at  him  with  the  same  expres- 


A   MENTAL   PRINCESS  79 

sion  of  mingled  suspicion  and  self-control  that 
was  in  the  faces  of  his  masters. 

"  Sarishan  ! "  called  out  the  black-bearded 
stranger. 

The  faces  of  the  men  lighted  up ;  the 
women  began  to  buzz  among  themselves ;  the 
hound's  head  sank  again  upon  his  outstretched 
paws.  One  of  the  men  stepped  forward. 

That  his  knowledge  of  Romany  should  ever 
be  put  to  so  practical  a  use  had  never  entered 
into  Oliver  Dallas'  most  abstruse  specula 
tions.  Interest  in  gypsies,  as  such,  he  had 
none.  They  were  vagabonds,  beggars, 
thieves ;  worst  of  all,  they  were  dirty.  But 
he  could  not  be  indifferent  to  the  charms  of  a 
language  still  spoken,  which  was  as  old  as 
Sanskrit,  and  probably  older.  There  was 
a  fascination  which  only  a  student  of  languages 
could  understand  in  being  able  to  study  an 
ancient  Hindu  dialect  in  the  very  heart  of 
modern  civilization.  Probably  he  not  only 
spoke  a  purer  Romany  than  the  man  with 
whom  he  was  talking,  but  his  vocabulary  was 
actually  larger. 

With  the  same  exhilaration  that  had  flung 
him  into  the  camp,  he  entered  into  the 
situation.  There  was  no  need  for  him  to 
simulate;  the  rich  physical  life  which  had 
so  long  waited  upon  the  mental  was  all  at 
once  dominant.  He  was  a  savage  without 


8o  TALES 

the  savagery,  primeval  man  with  a  university 
record. 

They  asked  him  whence  he  came,  not  as 
people  seeking  credentials,  but  in  friendli 
ness  and  good-comradeship.  He  told  them, 
without  thought  of  prevarication,  "  from  over 
there,"  with  a  jerk  of  his  head  towards  the 
mountain.  He  was  conscious  that  he  was  re 
ferring  only  to  the  last  three  days  —  that  the 
years  which  had  gone  before  were  obliterated. 
He  accepted  their  offer  of  food  —  he,  who 
had  as  great  a  horror  of  pork  as  any  Jew  — 
and  enjoyed  the  meal  with  the  zest  given  by 
his  long  tramp.  Afterward,  while  the  men 
smoked  and  the  women  joined  in  the  talk 
about  the  fire,  he  told  stories  and  jested, 
as  one  who  had  passed  his  life  beneath  the 
"tan." 

A  girl  sat  by  his  side ;  in  the  gathering 
darkness  and  with  his  imperfect  vision  he 
could  not  discern  her  features,  even  though 
she  had  come  gradually  closer  and  he  could 
now  put  out  his  hand  and  touch  her.  He  did 
so,  half  unthinking,  half  because,  in  his  keen 
enjoyment,  he  longed  for  the  sympathy  which 
comes  with  the  magnetism  of  a  hand-clasp. 
It  did  not  surprise  him  that  soft,  warm  fingers 
instantly  closed  upon  his  own.  He  was  in 
the  state  of  a  man  in  a  dream,  in  which  the 
most  extravagant  situations  and  metamor- 


A   MENTAL   PRINCESS  81 

phoses  excite  no  wonder.  So  the  twain  sat 
hand  in  hand,  and  the  fire  smouldered  and 
the  stars  were  shining. 

By  and  by,  some  one  struck  up  a  song  and 
the  others  joined  in.  It  was  such  music  as 
Dallas  had  never  before  heard  —  melody  to 
which  he  could  have  listened,  like  the  monk 
of  Hildesheim,  thinking  that  three  minutes 
had  passed,  to  awake  and  find  that  a  thousand 
years  had  flown.  Then  the  voice  of  the  girl 
by  his  side  took  up  the  strain. 

He  would  once  have  interpreted  the  story 
of  the  Lorelei  as  a  wind-myth.  There  crossed 
his  mind  now,  however,  a  wondering  doubt 
whether  the  tale  of  the  magic  power  of  a 
woman's  voice  was  not  simple  truth. 

Half  bewildered,  half  frightened,  he  strove 
to  cast  off  the  spell. 

He  must  go.  He  must  be  far  from  there 
on  the  morrow — he  scarcely  knew  what  he 
said,  for  the  strains  of  the  song  were  yet  in 
his  ears  —  he  groped,  blindly,  for  their  mean 
ing —  and  the  soft,  clinging  fingers  had  not 
relaxed  their  hold. 

Before  he  knew  it,  impelled  by  an  irresisti 
ble  power  —  partly,  it  may  be,  the  result  of 
the  intoxication  of  his  senses,  partly  as  the 
culmination  of  that  life-long  reaction  —  he 
whispered : 

"  Miri  pireniy  me  kamava  tut !  " 

6 


82  TALES 

He  spoke  as  the  first  of  the  race  might  have 
done,  unfettered  by  the  rules  and  traditions 
of  society ;  free  to  follow  the  call  of  his  own 
nature ;  obeying  blindly  its  impulse,  unknow 
ing,  unasking,  and  uncaring  whence  it  came 
or  whither  it  would  lead.  He  heard,  still  as 
in  a  dream,  soft  Romany  words,  with  the 
magic  of  the  song  lingering  in  their  cadences : 

"  Tu  shan  miro  jivaben,  me  fvel  paller  tute 
—  paller  tute  sarasapardel  puo  te  pani  /" 


II. 


DALLAS  awoke  the  next  morning  in  his 
hotel  chamber  with  the  words  spoken  in  reply 
to  his  own  —  "  My  darling,  I  love  you  !  "  — 
still  ringing  in  his  ears : 

"  /  will  follow  you  wherever  you  go,  over 
land  and  sea,  unto  the  uttermost  ends  of  the 
world!" 

Partly  from  his  lifelong  habit  of  weighing 
and  balancing  language,  of  giving  to  every 
word  its  exact  value,  as  well  as  because  he 
had  never  spoken  trifling  words  to  a  woman, 
he  felt  as  though  he  had  pledged  his  soul  to 
some  Mara,  like  the  knight  in  the  monkish 
legend. 

The  gypsy  girl  had  spoken  those  words  as 
though  in  earnest ;  and  a  whimsical  thought 


A   MENTAL   PRINCESS  83 

came  to  Dallas,  from  which  he  could  not  free 
himself,  that  she  would  reappear  in  pursu 
ance  of  her  vow  at  the  very  crisis  of  his  life, 
and  to  his  own  undoing. 

However,  uncomfortable  as  the  recollection 
made  him,  he  could  console  himself  with  the 
thought  that  the  convention  would  last  only 
a  few  days,  when  he  would  depart  by  the 
next  train  for  home  and  work,  from  out  whose 
harborage  he  would  never  again  venture. 

He  finished  shaving  and  betook  himself  to 
the  dining-room. 

The  breakfast  gong  had  sounded  some  time 
before,  but  the  apartment  was  still  empty. 

"  They  had  a  big  hop  here  last  night," 
said  the  waitress  in  an  explanatory  tone,  as 
she  led  the  way  to  his  table.  "  It  was  after 
two  o'clock  when  the  folks  went  to  bed,  and  I 
s'pose  they're  sleepy  this  morning." 

Dallas  had  a  vague  recollection  of  a  stair 
case  with  balusters  wreathed  with  golden-rod, 
and  of  the  sound  of  music  issuing  from  some 
apartment  that  he  had  passed  with  hastened 
steps ;  but  he  supposed  it  was  the  usual  state 
of  things  in  a  summer  hotel,  to  be  patiently 
endured  unto  the  time  of  deliverance. 

He  looked  about  him.  Garlands  of  ever 
green  were  suspended  across  the  ceiling, 
draped  on  the  windows  and  drooped  from  the 
chandeliers  ;  the  one  over  his  head,  especially 


84  TALES 

elaborate  with  great  bunches  of  everlastings 
amongst  the  greenery,  looked  like  a  marriage- 
bell.  Groves  of  young  spruce  were  ranged 
along  the  walls.  A  litter  of  broken  branches 
and  pine  needles  had  been  swept  aside  and  lay 
in  fragrant  heaps,  to  be  removed  at  a  more 
convenient  season,  and  some  of  the  curtains 
were  still  drawn. 

The  unreal  appearance  of  a  room  in  the 
morning  light,  after  a  festivity,  added  to  the 
sense  of  strangeness  that  already  burdened 
Dallas,  and  made  him  feel  as  though  he 
was  in  an  Arabian  Night's  tale,  in  which  he 
was  the  only  living  person  in  an  enchanted 
palace. 

The  door  at  the  end  of  the  hall  opened. 
A  girl  was  walking  down  the  room  with  a 
firmness  of  tread  and  directness  of  purpose 
that  was  quite  unlike  the  wobbly  gait  of  the 
country  maiden  who  had  attended  to  his 
wants. 

With  a  feeling  akin  to  horror,  he  perceived 
that  she  was  advancing  toward  the  table  where 
he  sat  —  a  feeling  which  reached  its  climax 
when  the  new-comer  took  a  seat  directly 
opposite  him. 

*'  Good  morning,  Mr.  Dallas,"  said  she. 
"  You  do  not  remember  me?  "  as  the  young 
man  failed  to  return  the  greeting. 

"  I  do  not,"  he  made  answer  promptly. 


A    MENTAL   PRINCESS  85 

There  was  no  intentional  discourtesy  in 
the  disclaimer.  Talleyrand  to  the  contrary, 
language  was  given  to  man  to  express  his 
thoughts.  The  girl  laughed. 

"  Your  tone  says,  '  Present  your  creden 
tials  !  '  I  met  you  last  winter  at  a  rehearsal 
of  '  Antigone,'  in  the  chorus  of  which  I  took 
a  distinguished  part." 

Dallas  looked  at  her  through  his  gold- 
bowed  spectacles  much  as  he  would  have 
scanned  a  word  of  whose  root  he  was  doubt 
ful.  His  recollection  of  the  Greek  chorus 
was  merely  of  a  medley  of  airy,  iris-hued 
draperies,  in  which  personality  bore  no  part. 
The  etymology  of  the  young  woman  opposite 
was  not  Greek.  Her  nose  was  irregular,  her 
face  was  browned  by  the  August  sun,  her 
light-brown  hair  was  twisted  into  an  unclassi- 
cal  knot  on  the  top  of  her  head ;  her  gown, 
too,  —  a  trim,  dark-blue  skirt  and  jacket 
braided  with  gold,  —  was  quite  unlike  the 
flowing  draperies  of  a  Greek  maiden. 

She  was  returning  his  scrutiny  with  a  cer 
tain  covert  amusement  that  was  not  lost  upon 
its  object ;  she  had  certainly  the  advantage  in 
knowing  something  of  him.  He  felt  that  the 
situation,  beneath  the  marriage-bell,  too,  was 
ridiculously  connubial. 

Were  they  the  only  two  people  awake  in 
the  house?  Would  the  waitress  never  re- 


86  TALES 

turn?  In  his  embarrassment  he  was  spelling 
out,  letter  by  letter,  the  word  "  Terpsichore," 
printed  in  evergreens  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 

"It  should  be — who  was  the  Muse  of 
Tragedy? — oh,  yes,  Melpomene,"  said  his 
neighbor,  with  mock  sympathy.  "  You  make 
me  feel  so  delightfully  classical,  Mr.  Dallas. 
De  gustibus  non  est  disputandum.  E  pluri- 
bus  unum.  God  bless  our  home !  Facilis 
descensus  Averno — with  especial  reference  to 
our  waitress.  A  week  ago  she  attended  to  our 
wants  fairly  well.  Crimps,  a  bang,  German 
cologne,  a  reckless  use  of  the  opprobrious 
epithet  '  lady,'  have  been  the  rapid  stages  of 
her  descent.  A  Barmecide  feast,  is  it  not? 
Let  me  introduce  our  neighbors  —  by  whom 
Love  may  be  conjugated.  This  woman  by  my 
side  is  Love  past.  Love  will  henceforth  be 
symbolized  to  my  mind  as  a  figure  enveloped 
in  a  gray  shawl  and  with  a  flannel  compress 
around  its  throat.  Love,  instead  of  breaking 
Mrs.  Hopkins'  heart,  has  affected  her  larynx. 
On  your  right  is  Love  present,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Poole,  a  young  bridal  pair.  Conversely  to 
Hamerton's  theory,  that  '  the  mental  prince 
should  marry  the  mental  princess,'  the  men 
tal  pauper  has  married  the  mental  pauperess. 
Mr.  Poole  is  teaching  his  bride  geography 
and  English  history;  but  when  he  alluded 
the  other  morning  to  Marblehead's  being  on 


A   MENTAL   PRINCESS  87 

the  Quincy  branch,  the  shades  of  Radcliffe 
compelled  me  to  refute  the  heresy.  Conse 
quently  I  am  looked  upon  as  one  who  scoffs 
at  true  love.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sillars,  on  your 
other  side,  present  the  picture  of  the  sunny 
future.  With  her,  love  has  developed  into 
dyspepsia;  with  him,  into  a  liver  trouble. 
She  spends  her  time  iji  a  haircloth  rocking- 
chair  in  a  corner  of  the  sunless  parlor,  knit 
ting  bed-socks.  He  is  devoting  the  summer 
to  making  a  scrap-book  of  the  criminal  cases 
in  the  newspapers  in  which  husband  and  wife 
figure.  I  suspect  that  one  reason  why  love 
has  waned  in  his  case  is  that  he  reads  poetry 
aloud  whenever  two  or  three  are  gathered  to 
gether;  and  as  the  gypsies  say,  one  must 
endure  the  chatter  and  say  nothing  "  — 

She  cut  herself  short,  for  several  other  per 
sons  had  entered  the  dining-room  and  were 
too  near  to  make  confidences  longer  safe. 

!"  Strong  tea,  fried  ham,  hot  biscuit,  dough 
nuts,  griddle-cakes  and  sirup  —  will  some 
body  tell  me  why  some  people  have  every 
thing  in  this  world  and  I  have  not  even 
health?"  come  in  lugubrious  tones  from 
Dallas'  left. 

"  Gladstone,  angel-pie,"  said  a  voice  on  the 
other  side.  "  His  first  name  is  '  Premier.'  " 

Dallas  looked  across  the  table  to  meet  his 
neighbor's  eyes,  with  the  malicious  twinkle 


88  TALES 

in  their  brown  depths  ;  and  the  look  seemed 
to  seal  between  them  a  sort  of  understanding, 
an  undefinable  feeling  of  good-fellowship. 

A  few  hours  later,  Dallas  attended  the  first 
meeting  of  the  convention.  As  he  stepped 
out  on  the  piazza,  still  in  grave  discussion 
with  one  of  his  confreres  on  the  copyright 
struggle  in  Congress,  his  ear  caught  words 
from  a  group  of  girls  near  by. 

"  The  gypsies  have  gone  !  "  one  of  them 
was  saying. 

"  Gone !  "  came  a  chorus  of  dismay  from 
the  others. 

"  There  is  not  a  trace  of  them  but  the  ashes 
of  their  fire." 

There  was  an  instant's  hush,  for  Dallas  had 
broken  off  his  sentence  midway  and  was  evi 
dently  listening  intently.  Then,  becoming 
conscious  of  his  apparent  rudeness,  and 
recognizing  his  companion  of  the  breakfast- 
table  as  one  of  the  group,  he  bowed  gravely 
and  resumed  his  conversation.  But  it  was 
no  longer  of  international  copyright  that  he 
was  thinking. 

The  others  had  fallen  away  and  he  vent 
ured  near. 

"The  gypsies  have  been  here?"  he  said 
interrogatively. 

"  An  old  woman  came  to  the  house  yester 
day  to  sell  baskets,"  explained  his  morning's 


A    MENTAL   PRINCESS  89 

acquaintance,  "  and  we  planned  to  visit  the 
camp  this  afternoon  and  have  our  fortunes 
told."  She  laid  down  her  book,  —  a  flimsy, 
paper-covered  volume,  —  at  which,  because  he 
did  not  know  exactly  what  to  say  next,  Dallas 
glanced,  and  read,  besides  the  title,  the  name, 
in  a  free,  bold  handwriting,  "  Margaret  Beach." 

"  Not  that  I  believe  in  the  gypsy  method," 
pursued  Miss  Beach,  gravely.  "I  insist  upon 
my  fortune  being  told  according  to  the  latest 
scientific  light.  None  but  Heron-Allen  may 
look  at  my  palm.  Shall  I  read  the  future  for 
you,  Mr.  Dallas?" 

The  tips  of  her  fingers  touched,  daintily, 
his  own.  What  was  there  in  the  contact 
that  nearly  made  him  reel? 

He  was  unused  to  the  touch  of  a  wom 
an's  hand,  or  —  did  the  soft  fingers  bring  back 
the  moment  when  the  ashes  had  been  fire  ? 
For  again  those  haunting,  maddening  words 
rang  in  his  brain : 

"  /  will  follow  you  wherever  you  go,  over 
land  and  sea,  unto  the  ttttermost  ends  of  the 
world /" 

Miss  Beach  was  knitting  her  pretty,  fair 
brows  in  profound  study.  Presently  she 
spoke : 

"  The  past  is :  You  have  played  tennis  a 
great  deal.  The  future  is  :  You  are  going  to 
play,  at  once,  —  with  me." 


90  TALES 


III. 


IN  the  background  of  Dallas'  life,  where 
with  other  men  had  been  youth,  there  was  a 
figure  lying  on  a  sofa,  with  a  novel  in  its 
hand,  calling  to  everybody  in  weak,  queru 
lous  tones,  to  do  its  bidding.  Having  seen 
how  a  nerve-vampire  may  suck  the  mental 
life  out  of  a  strong  man,  marriage  meant  to 
him  merely  exposure  to  interference,  inter 
ruption,  and  ignorant  criticism. 

But  here  was  a  woman  who  was  rejoicing 
in  perfect  health,  yet  who  wore  becoming 
gowns ;  who  liked  to  dance ;  who  read 
"  Rudyard  Kipling,"  —  whoever  he  might  be, 
—  yet  who  could  run  without  losing  breath, 
and  thought  nothing  of  walking  ten  miles ; 
who  was  not  ignorant  of  Colebrook,  Grimm, 
and  Burnouf;  who  had  a  healthy  appetite, 
and  a  waist  that  met  the  masculine  approval, 
yet  whose  voice  was  even  and  controlled,  and 
whose  manners  were  gentle ;  who  was  at  home 
in  Egyptology,  and  still  had  an  opinion  of  her 
own  as  to  the  merits  of  home-made  yeast. 

She  aroused  his  curiosity  as  something 
new  in  his  experience,  then  held  his  interest 
as  the  suggestion  of  future  developments  of 
the  race,  till,  before  he  realized  it,  he  was 


A    MENTAL   PRINCESS  91 

talking  to  her  as  he  had  never  talked  to  the 
most  congenial  of  his  masculine  associates, 
under  the  stimulus  of  the  intellectual  com 
radeship  of  the  woman  that  the  last  few 
lustrums  have  developed.  The  convention 
at  an  end,  he  made  no  secret  to  himself  of 
the  attraction  which  held  him  back  from 
home  and  his  cherished  studies. 

With  it  all,  he  could  not  free  himself  from 
a  sense  of  moral  incubus;  and  more  than 
once  he  awoke  from  a  hideous  dream  —  he 
to  whom  a  nightmare  had  been  hitherto 
unknown — in  which  a  gigantic  Mara  was 
pursuing  him  wherever  he  went,  over  land 
and  sea,  unto  the  uttermost  ends  of  the 
world,  while  a  voice  that  sounded  like  his 
own  was  repeating  again  and  again : 

"  Miri pireni,  me  kamava  tut!" 

How  she  would  scorn  him  if  she  knew  — 
she,  who  from  the  very  beginning  of  their 
acquaintance  had  lost  no  opportunity  of 
scoffing  at  love ! 

And  there  was  no  doubt  but  that  love  was 
fast  becoming  obsolete.  Admirable  as  a 
provisional  arrangement  for  the  continuance 
of  the  race,  as  the  growth  and  demands  of 
the  intellectual  life  increased,  "  the  silly, 
senseless,  and  savage  element "  dwelt  upon 
by  Max  Muller  was  becoming  happily  elimi 
nated  from  the  social  arrangement  no  less 


92  TALES 

than  from  religion.  In  the  future,  natural 
selection  would  mean  that  "  the  mental  prince 
would  marry  the  mental  princess." 

Were  confirmation  needful  of  his  theory, 
how  could  that  be  worthy  whose  lees,  as  with 
Mrs.  Hopkins,  had  soured  life,  making  her 
every  utterance  censorious?  Could  there 
be  aught  ennobling  in  a  feeling  which  had 
drawn  together  two  such  people  as  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Poole?  Upon  such  a  foundation,  the 
marriage  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sillars  had  re 
sulted  in  mutual  misery.  Moreover,  when 
he  asked  Miss  Beach  to  marry  him,  no 
moonlit  balcony,  with  its  attendant  influ 
enza  and  rheumatism,  should  be  the  scene 
of  a  proposal  dictated  by  healthy  reason, 
but  the  hotel  parlor,  in  broad  daylight,  after 
dinner. 

It  was  that  evening  that  Miss  Beach  was 
asked  to  sing.  She  complied,  with  Bour- 
dillon's  verses : 


The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes 

And  the  day  but  one; 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 

With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes 

And  the  heart  but  one; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies 

When  love  is  done. 


A   MENTAL   PRINCESS  93 

Beyond  criticism  in  technique  the  render 
ing  was  without  feeling  or  expression. 

"  He  sang  only  that  one  song,"  commented 
Miss  Beach  as  she  arose,  "  and  the  reason 
was  that  he  was  struck  dumb  afterward,  like 
Ananias." 

Mr.  Sillars,  perhaps  impelled  by  a  morbid 
desire  to  make  others  as  unhappy  as  himself, 
had  begun  to  read  "Tarn  o'  Shanter,"  in  a 
droning,  mouthing  utterance,  with  the  evident 
intention  of  keeping  on  to  the  bitter  end. 
Mrs.  Sillars  gathered  up  her  knitting  and 
fled.  Mrs.  Hopkins  drew  her  shawl  more 
closely  about  her,  and,  murmuring  something 
about  "my  poor  throat,"  glided  from  the 
room.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Poole  remembered, 
simultaneously,  that  they  had  a  letter  to 
write.  Miss  Beach  suggested  that  the  air  on 
the  piazza,  was  fresher  than  in  the  parlor, 
and  Mr.  Dallas  agreed  with  her. 

He  noticed  how  pretty  his  companion  looked 
in  the  moonlight,  with  a  satisfaction  which 
sprang  entirely  from  self-complacency  that 
his  pulse  was  beating  as  calmly  as  ever. 
They  sat  in  silence  for  some  minutes ;  and 
that,  too,  pleased  Dallas,  because  intellectual 
companionship  does  not  demand  the  incessant 
chatter  requisite  to  the  contentment  of  the 
young  bridal  pair.  After  all,  there  might 
be  no  better  opportunity  than  the  present. 


94  TALES 

Without  unnecessary  circumlocution  or  fool 
ish  hesitation,  he  began : 

"  I  doubt  if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  love 
amongst  the  educated  classes.  As  Spencer 
suggests  of  remorse,  I  am  convinced  that 
it  figures  merely  in  novels  or  upon  the 
stage." 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  answered  Miss  Beach, 
promptly. 

"  A  marriage  based  upon  a  calm  con 
sideration  and  comparison  of  the  characters 
and  tastes  of  the  parties  concerned,  is  the 
only  one  to  be  recognized  after  man  has 
outgrown  the  instincts  he  shares  with  the 
animals." 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  returned  his  com 
panion  calmly. 

"  And  so  you  will  marry  me?  " 

The  children  were  playing  "  Blind-man's- 
buff"  in  a  room  near  by;  they  were  drawing 
lots  for  "  Blind-man  "  by  means  of  a  familiar 
nonsense  verse.  With  an  interest  painful  in  its 
intensity,  Dallas  listened  to  the  meaningless 
jingle,  awaiting  breathlessly  some  unknown 
but  terrible  issue  when  that  last  syllable 
should  have  fallen  upon  him. 

"  Stingle  'em  —  stangle  'em  —  buck  !  "  came 
in  a  crescendo  of  childish  voices. 

"  No  !  "  almost  shrieked  Miss  Beach. 

Before  he  could  find  voice,  her  hand  had 


A   MENTAL   PRINCESS  95 

spasmodically  grasped  his  own,  and  she  de 
manded,  fiercely: 

"  Do  you  hear  that?" 

The  children  had  begun  the  chant  again  : 

One-eri  —  two-eri  —  ekkeri  —  an  — 
Fillisi  —  follasy  —  Nicolas  —  jan  — 

Queebee  —  quabee  —  Irishman, 
Stingle  'em  —  stangle  'em  —  buck  ! 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  means?  " 
"  They  are  Romany  words,  curiously  pre 
served,     almost    uncorrupted,    in    children's 
games,"    explained    Dallas,    professional    in 
stincts  conquering.     "  They  mean  — 

First  —  second  —  here  —  you  begin  — 

Castle  —  gloves  —  you  don't  play  —  go  on  "  — 

"  I  don't  care  what  they  mean,"  interrupted 
his  companion  wildly,  "  except  that  they  are 
gypsy  !  People  talk  about  the  power  of  drink 
or  opium  —  what  is  it,  compared  to  the  spell 
of  a  gypsy  word  !  I  don't  know  how  or  when 
it  began.  I  suppose  there  must  be  gypsy 
blood  in  my  veins,  too  far  back  to  be  traced. 
My  old  nurse  used  to  explain  it  otherwise. 
But  —  atavism  or  '  a  little  divil  inside  o'  me  ' 
—  it  is  there  !  I  gave  my  pennies,  before  I 
could  talk  plain,  to  an  old  scissors-grinder,  to 
teach  me  Romany.  The  sound  of  a  gypsy 
word,  the  sight  of  a  gypsy  face,  sets  my  blood 


96  TALES 

on  fire.  What  did  I  care  for  the  hop  of  the 
season  if  I  could  sit  for  an  hour  by  a  gypsy 
camp-fire ! 

"  It  was  then  he  came.  I  sang  to  him. 
Not  as  I  sang  to-night,  but  so  that  he  under 
stood  and  answered,  not  in  cold,  measured 
terms  of  hateful  reason,  but  in  words  that 
have  rung  in  my  ears,  day  and  night,  ever 
since. 

"  I  shall  never  marry.  I  dare  not !  For 
if  he  should  speak  those  words  again  I  should 
leave  all  —  friends,  home,  husband — and 
follow  him  wherever  he  went,  over  land  and 
sea,  unto  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  world  !  " 

His  hand  had  closed  on  hers  in  a  clasp 
that  may,  of  itself,  have  brought  recollection; 
and  he  whispered : 

"  Miri  pireni,  me  kamava  tut !  " 


A   RETURN    TO    NATURE 

"  T3  EV.  AUGUSTINE  ST.  GREGORY,  Miss 
XvHelen  Mackintosh.  Married  "  — 
"  Tear  up  the  wedding-cards  !  "  interrupted 
Pris  Armstrong.  "  It  was  infatuation  —  fa 
naticism.  How  could  a  Boston  girl,  brought 
up  with  every  advantage  of  education  and 
association,  marry  a  full-blooded  Sioux !  I 
went  to  the  wedding  under  protest;  as 
Helen's  nearest  friend,  I  sat  there  under 
protest;  and  it  required  all  my  self-control 
to  refrain  from  shrieking  aloud  at  the  words : 
'  If  any  man  can  show  just  cause  why  they 
should  not  lawfully  be  joined  together '  "  — 
"  You  talk  as  though  he  had  just  arrived 
from  the  plains,  in  wampum  and  war-paint," 
returned  Annie  Chesley,  indignantly.  "  I 
met  him  at  Mrs.  Cotting's  reception,  and 
thought  him  perfectly  fascinating.  He  has  the 
loveliest  manners — so  gentle  and  subdued, 
and,  with  his  soulful  dark  eyes  and  melan 
choly  face,  he  reminded  me  of  Edwin  Booth 
in  'The  Iron  Chest.'  Such  an  interesting 

7 


98  TALES 

history  as  he  has,  too  !  He  lost  his  father  at 
the  battle  of  the  Little  Big  Horn,  and  after 
the  flight  of  Sitting  Bull  and  his  men  into 
Canada,  the  poor  little  fellow  was  found  by  a 
missionary  and  sent  to  Hampton.  Later,  by 
means  of  an  old  lady's  bequest,  he  was 
educated  for  the  ministry,  preparatory  to 
going  as  missionary  to  his  own  people.  If 
you  had  heard  him  speak,  the  last  Sunday  in 
Advent,  when  the  collection  was  taken  for  the 
Domestic  Missions,  you  would  realize  what 
religion  has  done  in  transforming  a  savage 
into  a  Christian  gentleman  and  clergyman." 
"  Helen  was  taught  from  babyhood  to  save 
her  pennies  for  the  Domestic  Missions,"  said 
Pris,  slowly.  "  In  Lent  her  childish  sacri 
fices  were  for  the  benefit  of  some  Indian 
school.  Her  cast-off  toys  were  sent  to 
Hampton ;  her  Sunday-school  class  supported 
an  Indian  there.  Later  she  attended  all  the 
meetings  for  the  benefit  of  the  Indians,  has 
been  an  active  member  of  the  Dakota  League, 
and  devoted  all  her  charitable  energies  — 
and  a  Boston  girl  must  have  some  outlet  for 
her  inborn  spirit  of  philanthropy  as  impera 
tively  as  for  her  love  of  music,  books,  and 
art  —  to  collecting  funds  and  packing  barrels 
of  clothing  for  the  Indians.  As  she  stood  by 
the  altar,  it  seemed  the  culmination  of  a 
lifelong  fad,  —  an  earnest  and  religious  one, 


A   RETURN   TO   NATURE          99 

if  you  will,  but  still  merely  a  fad,  —  in  which 
love  bore  a  minor,  if  not  a  doubtful,  part. 
There  was  a  delay  in  getting  to  the  carriage, 
and  I  waited  on  the  curbstone.  No,  not  to 
throw  rice,  but  —  but  to  see  Helen  once 
more.  Captain  Carter,  Helen's  cousin,  —  he 
was  best  man,  —  closed  the  carriage  door, 
with  a  gay  good-by.  He  stood  with  uncov 
ered  head  in  the  fog  and  drizzle,  and  I  saw 
the  look  upon  his  face." 

"  They  say  he  has  always  been  in  love  with 
Helen." 

"  It  was  not  that.  Insight  gave  foresight, 
and  on  the  pavement  in  Copley  square  he 
saw  the  future,  somewhere  on  the  Western 
plains." 

"You  are  tired,  August?" 

Helen  St.  Gregory  arose  from  the  piano,  — 
the  one  article  of  luxury  she  had  permitted 
herself,  —  and,  leaning  over  the  back  of  her 
husband's  chair,  played  with  his  hair.  It 
had  been  allowed  to  grow  somewhat  long  in 
the  last  few  weeks. 

He  had  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  a 
settlement  a  few  miles  distant,  consisting  of 
a  few  wretched,  scattered  huts.  His  hand 
sought  his  throat  and  loosened  the  stiff 
clerical  bands  with  an  impatience  that  seemed 
uncontrollable. 


ioo  TALES 

"  It  is  stifling  here,"  he  said ;  "  the  air  of  a 
room  makes  me  cough." 

"  I  will  open  the  window." 

"  Open  both  windows  !  " 

"  I  cannot,"  returned  Helen,  with  some 
surprise  at  his  imperious  tone.  "  The  other 
window  is  sealed  hermetically  with  papier- 
mache  manufactured  out  of  soaked  news 
papers,  after  Frank  Carter's  recipe." 

Her  husband  strode  across  the  room,  and 
with  one  blow  of  his  clenched  fist  broke  away 
the  lower  part  of  the  sash. 

"  August !  How  could  you  —  Oh,  your 
hand  is  bleeding !  "  reproach  changing  to 
commiseration. 

She  caught  up  a  web  of  soft  linen  upon 
the  work-table. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  said  her  husband  almost 
haughtily,  drawing  himself  so  quickly  away 
that  the  linen  fell  beneath  his  foot. 

The  next  moment  there  was  an  exclama 
tion  from  both,  for  it  was  the  surplice,  with 
the  circle-emblem  of  immortality  embroid 
ered  upon  its  front,  that  lay  there,  blood 
stained  and  trampled. 

He  sank  into  the  chair  again,  and  she,  who 
had  learned  in  the  last  few  months  that  there 
were  times  when  it  was  best  to  leave  him  un 
disturbed,  silently  closed  the  shutters  outside 
the  broken  window  and  pinned  closely  over 


A   RETURN   TO   NATURE        101 

it  the  heavy  curtains  of  Mexican  blankets. 
The  room  was  both  sitting-room  and  study. 
In  the  corner  a  prie-dieu,  with  a  threadbare 
cushion,  testified  to  the  length  and  frequency 
of  his  devotions. 

Presently  Helen  looked  anxiously  up  from 
the  altar-cloth  she  was  embroidering. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  watch  me  in  that 
covert  manner,"  said  her  husband,  with  new 
irritability. 

He  was  tired,  she  thought,  and  her 
woman's  heart  chid  her  for  a  moment  of 
strange  and  chilled  misgiving.  It  was  a 
long,  cold  walk  to  the  settlement,  and  the 
people  there  were  the  most  degraded  of  his 
pastoral  charge.  They  consisted  only  of  old 
men,  women,  and  children;  the  young  men 
were  out  hunting  —  a  euphemism  for  having 
joined  certain  hostile  tribes  in  the  North 
west. 

"  I  have  questioned  lately,  Helen,"  he 
began  presently,  "  whether  I  have  not,  after 
all,  mistaken  my  vocation.  The  fire  has 
died  out  of  my  utterances ;  my  prayers  no 
longer  ascend  as  on  wings  of  light,  but  fall 
crushingly  back  upon  my  heart.  The  mean 
ing  has  gone  out  of  the  Holy  Scripture ;  its 
words  are  as  '  a  tale  told  by  an  idiot,  full  of 
sound  and  fury,  signifying  nothing.' " 

She    spoke    gentle,  reassuring   words,  but 


102  TALES 

the  strange  foreboding  returned,  and  bided  in 
her  heart.  Long  after  she  had  gone  to  bed, 
he  was  kneeling  at  the  prie-dieu. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  she  noticed  that 
he  was  unusually  silent;  that  the  early 
services,  the  prayers,  and  fastings  became 
more  frequent  —  the  last  so  rigorous  that 
she  begged  him  to  have  care  lest  his  health 
suffer. 

"  We  are  commanded,"  he  replied  sol 
emnly,  "  to  '  crucify  the  old  man  and  utterly 
abolish  the  whole  body  of  sin.'  " 

He  went  about  his  work  like  a  man  in  a 
dream.  The  melancholy  that  had  always 
characterized  him  became  moodiness,  a 
taciturnity  that  his  wife  learned  was  best 
left  unquestioned.  His  favorite  subjects  of 
conversation  had  formerly  related  to  his 
work ;  now  he  never  alluded  to  it.  His  texts 
had  been  chosen  from  the  New  Testament, 
that  upon  which  he  had  most  frequently 
dwelt  being,  "  For  their  sakes  I  sanctify  my 
self,  that  they  also  may  be  sanctified  through 
the  truth."  Now  his  sermons  were  drawn 
from  the  Old  Testament,  and  particularly 
from  those  accounts  that  dwelt  upon  ven 
geance  and  bloodshed.  When  he  read  the 
lesson  telling  of  the  killing  of  Sisera,  there 
was  a  repressed  force  in  his  utterance,  an 
intensity  of  dramatic  action  in  the  gestures  of 


A   RETURN   TO   NATURE        103 

his  slender  hand  and  flexible  wrist,  that 
brought  the  scene  with  awful  vividness  before 
his  listeners. 

"  She  smote  the  nail  into  his  temples  — 
for  he  was  fast  asleep  and  weary.  So  he 
died."  His  personality  was  merged  into  that 
of  Jael,  and  exaltation  was  exultation  over  the 
treacherous  and  savage  deed. 

His  manner  in  speaking  of  his  own  people 
had  formerly  been  tinged  with  sadness. 
Was  it  a  wild  fancy  of  his  wife's  that  it  now 
held  a  subtle  pride?  A  distinction,  too,  had 
evidently  grown  up  in  his  mind  between 
"  these  people  "  —  the  reclaimed  sheep  of  his 
flock  —  and  those  amongst  whom  his  child 
hood  had  been  passed. 

His  walks  over  the  plain  became  more 
frequent.  Helen  had  supposed  their  object 
was  the  settlement,  till  an  allusion  to  his  work 
there  undeceived  her.  "  I  have  not  been 
there.  I  walked  twenty,  thirty  miles  over  the 
plain,"  he  said,  with  an  excitement  that  all 
her  efforts  at  restraint  could  not  ignore. 

"  Listen !  "  and  the  words  that  followed 
were  strange  to  Helen.  "  It  is  the  tongue  of 
my  fathers,"  went  on  her  husband,  with 
solemn  pride.  "  Upon  the  vast  empty  plain 
there  was  a  sound  from  heaven  as  of  a 
mighty  rushing  wind,  and  even  as  the 
tongues  were  given  to  the  disciples  at  the 


104  TALES 

day  of  Pentecost  was  the  language  of  the 
warriors  given  back  to  me.  With  such 
words  did  my  father  speak  when  he  told  of 
his  deeds  at  the  council  fire.  My  father  was 
a  great  brave.  He  did  not  live  amongst  the 
women  and  children.  He  was  not  a  squaw- 
man.  He  was  Black  Kettle  !  " 

Bewildered  at  this  strange  outburst,  Helen 
called  beseechingly  to  her  husband.  He 
made  no  reply.  It  was  morning  when  he 
arose  from  the  prie-dieu. 

For  the  next  few  days,  except  for  an 
almost  unbroken  silence,  he  seemed  more 
like  his  former  self.  Late  one  afternoon,  in 
his  absence,  word  was  brought  to  Helen  that 
a  woman  had  been  confined  in  the  settlement, 
and  was  dying  for  lack  of  proper  care,  food, 
and  clothing.  The  circumstances  of  the  case 
appealed  to  her  with  peculiar  force.  Filling 
a  basket  with  food,  and  hastily  selecting  such 
articles  as  seemed  most  needful,  she  set  out 
on  her  lonely  walk. 

The  door  of  the  hut  was  ajar.  Its  one 
room  was  empty.  In  her  charitable  visiting 
in  Boston  a  similar  experience  had  often 
been  hers,  and  now,  as  then,  an  involuntary 
vexation  arose  at  having  been  made  the 
dupe  of  her  sympathies.  She  made  her  way 
to  the  next  hut,  but,  to  her  surprise,  it,  too, 
was  empty.  She  walked  on,  thinking  to 


A   RETURN   TO   NATURE        105 

find  some  one  to  question,  but  the  search  was 
vain.  The  village  was  deserted  ! 

The  last  hut  stood  on  the  brow  of  an 
incline.  In  the  hollow  beyond  was  a  strange 
sight. 

Shrinking  back  into  the  shadow  of  the  hut, 
petrified  with  horror,  she  stood  watching  a 
circle  of  savage  figures,  men  and  women 
alternating,  holding  one  another  by  the  hand, 
revolving  slowly  around  a  large  tree.  A 
dirge-like  chant  filled  the  air,  as  round  and 
round  the  dancers  went,  in  the  same  direction, 
with  eyes  closed  and  heads  bent  toward  the 
ground.  There  were  young  men  in  the 
circle.  Had  they  returned,  then,  from  their 
"hunting  expedition"? 

Chained  to  the  spot  by  the  mystic  spell  of 
the  "  ghost-dance,"  her  own  body  swayed  to 
and  fro  in  unison  with  the  dancers. 

One  figure  seemed  to  exercise  a  particular 
fascination  over  her.  It  was  that  of  a  young 
brave,  naked  to  the  hips,  and  with  streaks  of 
red  and  yellow  paint  across  his  breast. 
Darkness  had  long  ago  fallen,  and  fires  were 
gleaming  in  the  hollow,  but  still  Helen 
watched,  spellbound.  One  after  another  of 
the  dancers  fell  forward  on  his  face  in  a  kind 
of  swoon,  but  the  circle  was  instantly 
re-formed.  The  young  brave  who  had  held 
her  gaze  was  prostrate  at  last. 


io6  TALES 

Suddenly  he  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"  I  have  seen  the  Great  Father,"  he  cried, 
"  and  he  will  not  talk  to  me  because  I  have 
married  a  white  woman  !  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  her  husband  ! 

Half-frozen,  blinded,  and  staggering,  Helen 
reached  her  own  door  at  last.  She  must 
have  wandered  many  times  from  the  path, 
for  the  cold,  gray  morning  light  was  break 
ing.  She  dropped,  from  force  of  habit,  into 
the  chair  by  the  work-table.  She  must  darn 
those  socks  of  August's.  It  was  the  morning 
for  early  service.  She  took  up  a  little  illumi 
nated  book  of  devotions  in  which  it  was  her 
daily  habit  to  read.  Was  she  going  mad? 
The  words  were  revolving  in  a  circle  over  the 
page.  A  capital  A,  in  scarlet  and  gold,  bore 
a  fantastic  resemblance  to  the  paint-bedizened 
figure  of  the  dance. 

There  was  a  sound  without.  The  door 
was  pushed  open  and  a  naked  savage  strode 
into  the  room.  She  saw  his  purpose. 

"  August !  For  the  sake  of  our  unborn 
babe !  " 

What  followed  may  not  be  told. 


THE   TENTH    OF   SEPTEMBER 

WHAT  I  am  about  to  relate  is  no  mere 
ghost  story — would  to  God  it  were  ! 
No  breath  of  icy  air,  chilling  my  very  marrow, 
no  footfall,  as  of  "  Silence,  step  by  step  in 
creased,"  no  rustle  of  impalpable  garments, 
has  it  ever  been  my  fate  to  know.  To  see  or 
hear,  whatever  of  the  unimaginable  might  be 
revealed,  would  be  freedom. 

It  may  have  chanced  that  alone  at  mid 
night,  after  hours  of  concentrated  toil,  you 
are  leaving  the  darkened  room,  when  you 
have  been  stricken  with  a  sudden  unreason 
ing  horror  of  something,  you  know  not  what, 
that  was  striving  to  grasp  you  from  out  the 
emptiness  behind.  On  waking  from  deep 
sleep  there  has  loomed  before  your  straining 
eyes  a  horrible,  impalpable  shape  that  yet  was 
no  shape,  but  the  very  darkness  endowed 
with  a  malignant  life.  Of  something  that 
nature,  increased  indefinite  fold,  is  the  Pres 
ence  that  has  made  existence  to  me  a  curse. 
Since  the  days  of  our  ancestor,  the  second 


io8  TALES 

governor  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay  Colony, 
our  family  had  followed  one  profession, — 
that  of  physician.  When  the  era  of  specialty 
dawned,  my  grandfather  adopted  that  of 
Neurology  ;  my  father  made  the  same  choice ; 
and,  from  my  earliest  recollections,  it  was 
understood  that  I  was  to  follow  in  their  foot 
steps.  After  taking  my  Harvard  degree,  I 
studied  for  several  years  at  Edinburgh  and  in 
Germany,  and  returned  to  Boston  to  step  into 
a  lofty  and  assured  position  in  my  chosen 
calling.  Besides  assisting  my  father  in  his 
numerous  private  cases,  —  he  deferred  to  me 
if  our  diagnoses  conflicted,  — I  was  a  member 
of  the  Visiting  Board  of  two  asylums  for  the 
insane,  was  appointed  lecturer  on  Neurology 
at  the  Medical  School,  and  published  a  book, 
"  Responsibility  in  Mental  Disease,"  that  was 
quoted  by  those  who  were  themselves  author 
ities. 

While  I  supposed  that  the  world  held 
nothing  for  me  but  my  profession,  I  met 
Helena  Kay.  There  may  have  been  girls  that 
were  prettier,  more  accomplished,  more  at 
tractive  in  the  general  sense,  but  none  whom 
I  had  ever  met  fulfilled  my  ideal  of  woman 
hood  till  I  knew  Helena.  Neither  her  nature 
nor  mine  was  of  the  kind  that  "  falls  "  in 
love,  but  one  day  we  awoke  to  the  full  and 
blissful  assurance  that  we  loved  each  other 


THE   TENTH   OF   SEPTEMBER     109 

as  man  and  wife  should  love.  Congratula 
tions  poured  upon  us ;  we  were  of  the  same 
rank  in  life,  and  people  said  we  "  fitted." 
My  father's  beatitude  as  he  welcomed  his 
"  daughter  "  was  complete. 

To  be  worthy  of  Helena  I  worked  harder 
than  ever  to  win  a  loftier  name,  a  wider  fame, 
in  my  calling.  In  the  preparation  of  an  ex 
tended  work  on  the  "  Hallucinations  of  In 
sanity,"  it  became  desirable  to  consult  several 
eminent  men  in  England,  and  to  visit  some 
of  the  hospitals  for  the  insane  on  the  Conti 
nent.  Accordingly,  I  decided  to  spend  the 
ensuing  months  abroad,  returning  immedi 
ately  before  the  third  of  October  —  our  wed 
ding  day.  In  September,  after  a  season  of 
intense  mental  activity,  I  found  myself  in 
London.  On  the  evening  of  the  tenth,  Sir 
James  Gordon,  the  eminent  surgeon,  gave  a 
farewell  dinner  in  my  honor.  Nothing  of  an 
exciting  nature  had  occurred  during  the  day. 
The  conversation  at  the  table  was  upon  com 
monplace  topics.  At  no  time  was  it  my 
habit  to  exceed  one  glass  of  wine  for  diem, 
and  that  night  a  single  sip  of  sherry  was  all 
that  had  passed  my  lips.  The  dinner  had 
reached  saddle  of  mutton  when  suddenly  I 
became  aware  of  the  awful  Presence  that  will 
never  leave  me  this  side  the  grave. 

Starting  from  my  chair,  I  glanced  fearfully 


no  TALES 

over  my  shoulder.  With  a  face  frozen  with 
horror,  I  looked  into  every  corner  of  the  bril 
liantly  lighted  room.  Instinctively  I  grasped 
the  human  hand  of  my  neighbor;  the  contact 
revealed  mine  cold  as  ice.  Twice,  thrice,  I 
tried  to  speak,  but  my  lips  were  stricken  with 
dumbness. 

The  buzz  of  conversation  had  suddenly 
ceased,  and  every  one  at  the  table  was  staring 
at  me. 

"For  God's  sake,  Dudley,  what  has  hap 
pened?  "  cried  my  host. 

I  seized  the  decanter,  poured  out  and  drank, 
in  rapid  succession,  three,  four  glasses  of 
sherry,  and  looked  around  on  the  circle  of 
anxious,  mystified  faces  like  one  awakening 
from  a  swoon.  Solicitations  were  poured 
forth,  questions  heaped  upon  me,  but,  with 
pallid  face  and  icy  hands,  I  kept  my  secret, 
as  I  have  guarded  it  from  that  hour  to  this. 
Who,  indeed,  of  all  the  world,  could  under 
stand  the  horror  that  had  befallen  me? 
Dinner  was  soon  at  an  end.  Disguise  it  as 
they  would,  not  a  man  but  what  was  anxious 
to  flee  my  presence. 

The  tenth  of  September  !  Then  was  drawn 
the  dividing  line  between  me  and  humanity. 

It  was  only  in  the  first  days  of  my  posses 
sion  that  I  attempted  to  analyze  the  nature 
of  that  mysterious  Presence ;  afterwards,  I 


THE   TENTH   OF   SEPTEMBER     in 

might  as  well  have  attempted  to  analyze  my 
own  soul.  It  seemed  to  me  conceivable  that 
with  the  cumulative  effect  of  generations 
devoted  to  one  line  of  thought,  —  and  that 
dealing  almost  exclusively  with  mental  con 
ditions,  —  increased  possibly  in  my  own  case 
by  some  special  individual  aptitude,  my 
intellectual  faculties  had  outstripped  their 
proper  balance  with  the  physical,  till  a  state 
was  reached  in  which  the  mental  perceptions 
acted  without  the  aid  or  intervention  of  the 
bodily  senses ;  that  the  inward  vision,  thus 
magnified,  had  obtained  cognizance  of  some 
Reality  in  the  psychical  world  that  was  none 
the  less  real,  because  not  reducible  to  for 
mulae.  Could  Coleridge  have  had  a  similar 
experience  and  so  made  it  the  animus  of  the 
Ancient  Mariner,  shunned  by  all  men?  What 
mysteries  had  been  unveiled  to  Keats  before 
he  wrote  his  terrible  "Lamia"? 

Concomitant  with  Its  presence,  I  was  aware 
of  what  I  can  only  describe  as  a  kind  of 
double  consciousness.  One  was  that  of  my 
real  self,  whose  keynote  was  Helena;  the 
other  part  of  this  dual  nature  was  under  some 
dominant  influence  that  controlled  not  only 
my  acts,  but  my  very  thoughts  and  passions. 
A  sensation  somewhat  akin  to  this  strange 
mental  state  occasionally  occurs  in  sleep, 
when,  all  moral  feeling  at  an  end,  one  com- 


U2  TALES 

mits  the  most  atrocious  crimes  with  indiffer 
ence,  yet  with  the  cognizance,  underlying 
subconsciousness,  that  these  horrors  are  a 
dream  from  which  presently  he  will  awake 
and  all  will  be  well.  But,  fettered  as  in  a 
nightmare,  I  knew  that  when  I  awoke  I 
should  find  that  the  acts  and  penalties  of  my 
dream  were  real. 

Leaving  London  without  farewells,  I 
hastened  to  Liverpool,  where  I  was  unknown, 
and  for  three  days  and  nights  struggled  in 
the  spiritual  torment  of  Laocoon ;  but  the 
coils  grew  ever  closer  and  tighter,  and  my 
power  of  resistance  weakened  hourly.  I  had 
gone  early  on  board  the  boat,  and  stood  by 
the  rail  on  the  upper  deck  moodily  watching 
the  stream  of  people  pass  over  the  gangway, 
when  my  glance  fell  upon  a  young  girl ;  she 
was  chatting  and  laughing  with  a  group  of 
acquaintances,  whose  hands  were  filled  with 
farewell  tributes  of  flowers  and  boxes  of  bon 
bons.  There  was  nothing  in  her  appearance 
to  which  positive  exception  could  be  taken ; 
only,  to  a  critical  eye,  the  impression  it  con 
veyed  was  that  of  one  just  below  the  social 
line  ;  scarcely  vulgar  —  not  high-bred. 

Attracted  by  my  fervent  gaze,  she  glanced 
upward  and  our  eyes  met.  Eagerly  I  awaited 
her  reappearance  on  deck ;  as  she  came  in 
sight,  my  heart  beat  madly,  and,  forgetting 


THE   TENTH    OF   SEPTEMBER     113 

home,  Helena,  the  third  of  October,  I 
started  forward,  intent  on  I  know  not  what. 
At  that  moment  a  young  man  belonging  to 
the  travelling  party,  who  was  apparently  act 
ing  as  the  girl's  special  escort,  placed  his 
hand  upon  her  arm,  and  the  familiarity  mad 
dened  me  with  what  I  dared  not  call  jealousy. 
At  that  moment  a  lady  near  me  caught  a 
glimpse  of  my  face,  and,  with  an  involuntary 
exclamation,  hurried  from  my  neighborhood, 
casting  an  affrighted  backward  glance. 

That  night,  sleeping  or  waking,  a  pink  and 
white  face  was  ever  before  me.  I  did  not 
seek  to  disguise  from  myself  the  motive  that 
took  me  early  on  deck  the  next  morning. 
Presently  she  —  the  girl  for  whom  I  waited  — 
appeared,  and  passed  me  with  a  smile  that 
was  easy  to  interpret.  My  unreproved  greet 
ing  was  followed  by  a  light,  flattering  speech, 
at  which  she  dimpled  bewitchingly ;  then, 
with  studied  but  palpable  hesitation,  she 
accepted  my  invitation  to  walk  the  deck,  and 
presently  acceded  to  a  petition  to  be  allowed 
to  place  her  chair  and  arrange  her  rugs.  The 
morning  passed  in  the  secluded  corner. 

Every  moment  of  the  ensuing  days  I  was 
at  her  side.  The  passengers  smiled  signifi 
cantly  at  our  mutual  absorption,  and  even  made 
opportunities  for  us  to  be  together,  after  the 
usual  temper  of  people  toward  acknowledged 


ii4  TALES 

lovers.  On  the  third  day  out  I  asked  her  to 
be  my  wife  —  and  all  the  while  my  other  self 
was  conscious  of  Helena. 

We  were  married  in  New  York  the  day  of 
our  arrival,  and  took  the  train  immediately  for 
Boston,  her  home  as  well  as  mine.  With 
supreme  disregard  for  consequences,  I  gave 
orders  to  drive  to  my  father's  house  ;  leaving 
Mabel  in  the  reception-room,  I  entered  the 
study  unannounced. 

"  My  boy  !  "  exclaimed  my  father,  holding 
out  his  hands,  his  fine  face  aglow.  "  Here  is 
one  who  will  rejoice  even  more  than  I,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Helena,  who  stood  before 
me  silent,  but  with  shining  eyes  and  happy, 
curved  lips. 

I  awoke ! 

In  the  overwhelming  tide  of  feeling  that 
bore  down  upon  me,  I  staggered,  and  sank 
into  the  nearest  chair.  One  lightning  flash 
appeared  out  of  the  blackness  of  darkness.  I 
had  lost  Helena ! 

"He  is  ill,  poor  boy,  as  we  feared  when 
we  received  no  telegram,"  said  my  father. 
"  There  was  a  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  entered 
that  I  did  not  like." 

Helena's  cool,  soft  hand  was  placed  upon 
my  forehead.  The  touch  brought  sicken- 
ingly  home  my  treachery. 

"  Don't  touch  me  !  "  I  cried,  as  a  leper  of 


THE   TENTH    OF   SEPTEMBER     115 

old  might  have  called  out  his  woful  warning, 
"  Unclean  !  "  "I  am  married  !  " 

"  A  touch  of  delirium,"  said  my  father, 
professionally.  "  We  must  get  him  to  bed  ; 
overwork  "  — 

"Don't  you  understand?"  I  repeated, 
irritably ;  "  I  tell  you  I  am  married.  My  wife 
is  with  me." 

Helen's  arm  slipped  around  my  neck. 
There  was  no  trace  of  foolish  embarrassment 
in  her  voice  or  manner  as  she  bowed  her 
head  and  whispered,  so  that  only  I  could 
hear:  "Yes,  my  own,  I  am  with  you, 
always.  I  will  never  leave  you." 

The  door  was  pushed  abruptly  open  and 
Mabel  entered.  For  a  few  moments  there  was 
silence.  Then  my  father  spoke,  calmly  and 
icily,  "  This  room  is  no  place  for  you, 
Helena.  Will  you  take  my  arm  ?  " 

Presently  he  returned. 

"  Now,  sir,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this?  " 
he  demanded  sternly. 

In  silence,  I  handed  him  the  marriage  cer 
tificate.  He  was  long  in  reading  the  few 
lines. 

"  The  old  gentleman  doesn't  seem  exactly 
glib  with  his  congratulations,"  suggested 
Mabel,  even  her  self-assurance  shaken  by  this 
reception.  "  I  thought  it  was  time  I  put  in 
an  appearance,"  she  added,  in  a  strident 


ii6  TALES 

whisper.  "  I  was  at  the  door,  you  know ; 
naturally,  I  felt  an  interest  in  what  was  going 
on." 

Utilizing  the  glass  door  of  the  adjacent 
bookcase  as  a  mirror,  she  pulled  out  her 
frizzes  and  settled  her  neckgear  to  her 
fancy.  Then,  her  equanimity  apparently  re 
stored  by  the  pleasing  reflection,  she  turned 
to  my  father. 

"  We've  taken  you  by  surprise,  I  suppose," 
she  simpered.  "  George  couldn't  wait  for 
even  a  wedding-gown,  though  I've  always 
said  "  — 

"  Never  let  me  see  you  again,"  said  my 
father,  pointedly  addressing  me,  and  mo 
tioned  to  the  door. 

"Aren't  we  going  to  live  here?"  queried 
Mabel,  in  a  loud,  aggressive  tone.  "  I  won't 
stir  a  step  from  this  house.  I've  ordered  our 
'  At  Home  '  cards  "  — 

"  Come,"  -I  said  sullenly ;  and  for  once 
silenced,  she  followed,  and  we  left  the  house. 

My  wife's  people  lived  on  an  avenue  that, 
having  attempted  fashion  and  achieved  vul 
garity,  sank,  by  a  natural  transition,  to  the 
unmentionable.  A  house  here  and  there  re 
tained  something  of  its  former  comparatively 
decent  estate,  and  in  one  of  these  florid, 
arrogant  dwellings,  that  one  instinctively  felt 
was  besmirched  without  and  within  by  its 


THE   TENTH    OF    SEPTEMBER     117 

surroundings,  Mabel's  parents  received  me, 
at  first  with  flattery,  changed  by  rapid  degrees 
to  questioning  looks  and  unconcealed  ill- 
feeling,  as,  day  by  day,  the  mistake  their 
daughter  had  made  grew  more  evident. 

Having,  from  habit  of  life  and  from  well- 
justified  confidence  in  my  own  ability  to 
command  an  income  commensurate  with  my 
tastes,  always  lived  to  the  extent  of  my  pro 
fessional  earnings,  I  had  no  money  laid  by. 
Financial  straits  were  soon  added  to  my 
misery.  With  that  exaggerated  class  feeling 
inherent  in  the  "  Brahmin  caste  "  of  New  Eng 
land,  the  people  amongst  whom  my  private 
practice  had  laid,  for  the  alleged  reason  of 
my  treatment  of  one  of  their  number,  no 
longer  sought  my  advice.  I  received  a  cour 
teous  intimation  from  the  Medical  School 
that  the  course  of  lectures  which  I  had  been 
invited  to  deliver  had  been  abandoned,  for 
reasons,  etc.  My  position  on  managerial 
boards  became  so  unpleasant  that  I  proffered 
a  resignation  that  was  accepted  without  men 
tion  of  "  reconsideration." 

Accompanying  and  accentuating  this  tan 
gible  trouble  was  the  awful,  unknowable  Pres 
ence  that  at  times  seemed  to  be  driving  me 
mad.  I  might,  indeed,  have  suspected  my 
sanity,  had  it  not  been  that  during  the  entire 
period  of  my  possession  my  mental  faculties 


n8  TALES 

remained  unclouded ;  in  fact,  day  by  day,  my 
intellect  seemed  to  grow  clearer,  more  lumi 
nous.  Besides,  would  not  I,  a  recognized  au 
thority  on  Neurology,  have  been  the  first  to 
recognize  a  morbid  disturbance  of  my  own 
nervous  system? 

Sometimes  It  would  leave  me  free  for  days. 
Then  the  sudden  consciousness  of  Its  pres 
ence  would  overwhelm  me,  with  Its  concomi 
tant  sense  of  double  consciousness.  It  did 
not  always  dominate;  that  phase  apparently 
asserted  itself  in  the  more  important  junctures 
of  my  life,  leaving  me  free  in  the  mere  details 
of  every-day  intercourse ;  but  the  Presence 
came  and  went  erratically  —  at  wakeful  mid 
night,  as  I  bought  a  paper  of  a  newsboy, 
or  walked  the  crowded  street  at  noonday. 
However  dense  the  throng,  I  was  never 
trodden  by  careless  foot  nor  jostled  by  heed 
less  elbow. 

One  day,  as  I  put  the  latch-key  into  the 
door  of  what  I  called  my  home,  It  was  sud 
denly  with  me.  Mabel  was  in  the  parlor  with 
the  young  man  who  had  been  her  companion 
that  first  day  on  the  steamer.  His  name  was 
Fred  Martin.  I  did  not  love  my  wife.  I  did 
not  even  hate  her.  I  knew  I  had  no  cause 
for  jealousy.  But  as  I  saw  her  and  Martin 
seated  familiarly  side  by  side,  a  mad  passion 
of  anger  and  hatred  took  possession  of  me. 


THE   TENTH    OF    SEPTEMBER     119 

Involuntarily  glancing  up  at  the  sudden 
shadow  in  the  doorway,  Mabel's  sudden  start 
was  evidence  of  guilt.  At  the  expression  of 
my  face,  she  pressed  closer  to  Martin,  and 
clasping  his  arm  with  both  hands,  cried,  be 
seechingly  : 

"  Fred,  Fred,  don't  let  him  hurt  me.  I  am 
afraid  !  "  and  burst  into  hysterical  sobs. 

The  disturbance  brought  her  father  and 
mother  to  the  room.  Mabel  was  soothed 
and  petted,  apologies  were  offered  to  Martin, 
I  was  told,  in  undisguised  language,  that  I 
was  a  monster.  Scant,  indeed,  was  the  toler 
ance  now  meted  out  to  me ! 

This  episode  ushered  in  a  new  state  of 
affairs.  Mabel  could  not  leave  the  house 
that  I  did  not  dog  her  footsteps.  I  ransacked 
her  desk,  her  bureau,  for  guilty  correspond 
ence.  Martin  was  an  old  friend,  nothing 
more.  I  drove  her  into  her  sin,  if,  indeed, 
sin  it  was.  Partly  from  the  comfort  his 
sympathy  gave,  partly  because  of  my  oppo 
sition,  for  Mabel  —  I  write  it  without  reproach 
—  was  of  that  nature  that  delights  in  the 
forbidden,  what  my  jealousy,  that  was  yet 
not  my  jealousy,  feared,  came  to  pass.  One 
day  my  wife  wore  a  little  bunch  of  violets  at 
her  breast.  I  tore  the  flowers  from  her  and, 
like  a  raging  beast,  trampled  them  under 
foot.  "  As  I  would  do  to  him  !  "  I  muttered. 


120  TALES 

My  wife  did  not,  as  usual,  have  recourse  to 
tears. 

"  Why  did  you  marry  me,  if  only  to  treat 
me  so!  "  she  cried.  "And  I  —  what  a  fool 
I  was !  I  thought  it  would  be  fine  to  have 
my  cards  engraved  '  Beacon  street,'  but  much 
good  your  name  or  money  has  done  me. 
I  wish  to  heaven  I  had  married  Fred  Martin, 
and  let  you  keep  your  engagement  to  Miss 
Kay !  " 

"Did  you  know  that  I  was  betrothed?" 
I  demanded,  holding  her  by  the  wrist  as  she 
would  have  left  the  room. 

"  Of  course  I  did,"  she  answered,  fear  for 
gotten  in  anger.  "  Don't  you  think  that  I 
had  read  the  passenger  list  and  knew  you  for 
a  howling  swell  before  I  came  on  deck.  Do 
you  take  me  for  a  fool?" 

"  I  take  you  for  something  worse,"  I  began 
recklessly,  when  she  snatched  herself  away 
and  hurried  from  the  room  casting  a  back 
ward  look  of  scorn  and  hatred.  Heaven  help 
me  —  if  Heaven  there  be  !  —  I  deserved  both. 

After  hours  of  aimless  wandering  through 
the  streets,  I  returned  to  find  that  my  wife 
had  left  me,  with  Martin.  Her  father  awaited 
me. 

"  There  is  but  one  course  open,"  he  said 
sternly.  "  She  must  be  set  free  to  marry 
Martin.  Before  Heaven,  she  is  blameless, 


THE   TENTH    OF   SEPTEMBER     121 

but  the  plea  for  divorce  must  come  from 
you." 

"  I  have  no  money  to  purchase  my  wife's 
virtue,"  I  returned  doggedly,  "  low  as  the 
market  price  appears  to  be." 

Her  father  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"  You  shall  have  all  the  money  that  is 
necessary.  It  is  not  by  your  treatment  of 
my  daughter,"  he  went  on,  in  another  tone,  — 
a  tone  from  which  natural  resentment  had 
died,  —  "that  you  have  inspired  me  with  a 
feeling  unlike  mortal  hatred,  the  like  of  which 
I  have  never  known  before,  and  which,  I  pray 
to  God,  I  may  never  know  again.  I  say  to 
you,  without  passion,  that  I  would  rather  my 
only  child  should  live  as  Martin's  mistress 
than  as  your  wife  !  " 

So,  at  my  instance,  a  suit  for  divorce  was 
entered.  The  newspapers  printed  daily  bul 
letins  of  its  progress,  with  the  customary  il 
lustrations.  One  cut  represented  me  dragging 
my  wife  about  by  her  hair,  on  her  refusal  to 
partake  of  the  bottle  labelled  "  Poison  "  which 
I  was  somewhat  indiscreetly  brandishing. 
Everything  was  against  me.  I  attempted  no 
defence.  Mabel  shone  out  an  afflicted  angel 
of  light  and  goodness.  The  divorce  was 
granted,  and,  in  due  time,  Mabel  married  Fred 
Martin. 

I  hired  an  attic  room  in  the  labyrinth  of 


122  TALES 

lanes  at  the  South  End  whose  very  existence 
is  unsuspected  by  the  well  to  do  and  respect 
able,  and  picked  up  a  precarious  living  by 
those  methods  damned  in  the  word  —  un 
professional. 

In  one  of  the  long,  rambling  walks  in  which, 
goaded  like  Orestes  of  old,  my  nights  were 
frequently  passed,  I  started  to  discover  that 
my  unwitting  footsteps  had  led  me  to  the 
neighborhood  of  my  former  home.  The  street 
was  thickly  strewn  with  tan.  The  precaution 
could  only  mean  that  my  father  was  very  ill. 
I  knew  his  malady — the  sight  of  his  old  and 
honorable  name  dragged  through  the  mire. 
The  longing  to  see  him,  if  only  once  again, 
took  possession  of  me,  and,  without  giving 
myself  time  for  reflection,  I  mounted  the 
familiar  steps  and  pressed  the  bell.  No  sound 
followed,  but  a  servant  evidently  on  guard  in 
the  hall  opened  the  door. 

"  Let  me  in ;  I  wish  to  see  my  father,"  I 
said  imperiously,  and  without  allowing  time 
for  denial  or  parley,  pushed  past  the  bewil 
dered  man  and  made  my  way  up  the  stairs 
and  into  my  father's  room. 

Dr.  Fredericks,  an  old  friend  and  pro 
fessional  colleague  of  my  father,  was  seated 
at  the  bedside.  He  frowned  at  my  en 
trance,  then  arose  and  beckoned  me  into 
the  hall. 


THE   TENTH    OF   SEPTEMBER     123 

"  Is  he  dying?"  I  questioned  hoarsely. 

"  To-night  will  decide,"  answered  the  doc 
tor,  with  stern  brevity.  "  For  what  have  you 
come?  " 

"To  see  my  father,"  I  answered  humbly. 
"  For  what  else  could  I  have  come?  I  knew 
but  just  now  of  his  illness.  For  God's  sake, 
don't  keep  me  from  him  !  " 

Dr.  Fredericks'  fine-featured  face,  at  first 
unrelenting,  grew  troubled,  then  perplexed. 
Finally,  the  old  physician  said  solemnly,  "  It 
may  be  that  your  footsteps  were  guided  to 
this  hour !  Your  father  will  probably  have 
a  moment  of  consciousness  toward  midnight," 
he  went  on.  "  I  dare  not  leave  a  dying  man 
—  for  there  is  scant  hope  —  with  a  possible 
longing  ungratified,  nor  you  without  the 
chance  for  forgiveness  of  which  of  all  living 
men  I  earnestly  believe  you  stand  most  in 
need.  You  were  once  the  worthy  son  of 
your  father,  George  Dudley.  And  my  pride 
in  your  achievements  was  scarcely  less  than 
his.  In  your  hands  I  leave  him.  And  pray 
to  God,"  he  added,  lifting  his  hand  in  the  in 
spiration  of  that  moment  when  the  ordained 
physician  feels  himself  the  Great  High-Priest 
of  the  Almighty,  "  that  in  His  great  mercy 
He  may  grant  you  opportunity  to  win  back 
the  life  that  you,  and  you  only,  have  brought 
to  this  pass." 


124  TALES 

I  bowed  my  head  and  reentered  the  sick 
room. 

The  nurse  was  sitting  near  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  I  took  a  chair  at  its  head.  Two  hours 
passed.  Accustomed  though  she  was  to 
continued  vigils,  the  attendant  looked  drowsy. 

"  I  will  watch,"  I  motioned  with  my  lips. 
"  If  I  need  help,  I  will  wake  you." 

The  woman  gratefully  assented  and  was 
soon  breathing  regularly  and  deeply.  An 
other  hour  passed.  Not  for  an  instant  did 
my  eyes  leave  my  father's  face.  Midnight 
came,  and  I  saw,  with  the  physician's  trained 
vision,  that  a  change  had  taken  place.  The 
sick  man's  countenance  was  no  longer  chalky 
gray,  the  lines  around  his  mouth  had  relaxed, 
the  forehead  looked  less  parched.  The  crisis 
had  come,  had  passed  ;  and  my  father  would 
live  ! 

Then,  even  as  I  softly  rose,  once  again  that 
brooding  Horror  filled  the  darkened  room,  and 
the  abyss  of  my  last  sin  yawned  before  me. 

Why  should  I  give  the  sick  man  the  life 
that  lay  upon  the  table  yonder?  Hypodermic 
injections  of  the  strychnia  would  stimulate 
the  heart's  feeble  action  to  renewed  life.  The 
returning  tide  had  only  to  be  watched  and 
fed  to  flow  once  again  through  the  veins  in 
the  full  measure  of  tranquil  health.  Mean 
time,  what  for  me? 


THE   TENTH    OF   SEPTEMBER     125 

The  wretched  garret,  the  scanty  food,  the 
aimless  wanderings  through  the  squalid  streets 
by  night,  the  sinking  yet  deeper  into  the 
quicksand  of  evil  practice.  Stay  my  hand, 
no  living  man  would  be  the  wiser.  "  Heart 
failure  "  would  be  the  unquestioned  verdict 
over  the  death  of  the  lamented  Dr.  Dudley. 

Once  again,  as  in  a  deadly  nightmare,  I 
knew  the  remorse  that  my  act  would  bring  in 
waking  hours,  but  was  without  the  power,  nay, 
even  the  desire,  to  arouse  myself.  I  revelled 
in  the  thought  of  the  luxury  that  would  again 
be  mine.  I  scarcely  breathed  lest  I  should 
awake  the  nurse,  whose  nodding  head  caused 
me  infinite  amusement.  I  laid  wagers  with 
myself  whether  the  death-rattle  would  arouse 
her;  I  smiled  in  joyful  unison  of  thought  and 
feeling  to  Something  that  was  behind  the 
screen,  that  was  not  there,  nor  here,  nor  any 
where,  yet  crushed  upon  my  soul  with  all- 
pervasive  force. 

With  eyes  glued  upon  the  face  of  my  father, 
I  noted  with  practised  eyes  each  subtle  symp 
tom  ;  saw  life  ebb  away,  and,  ghoul-like, 
feasted  upon  the  sight,  and  stirred  neither 
hand  nor  foot. 

The  hours  crept  slowly  on  till  that  time 
when  death  comes  oftenest.  With  the  faint 
morning  light  my  father  opened  his  eyes  in 
consciousness. 


126  TALES 

"  George,  my  dear,  dear  boy !  "  he  mur 
mured,  made  a  motion  as  though  to  stretch 
out  his  arms  to  me,  sighed  faintly,  and  with 
that  sigh  breathed  out  his  life  —  murdered, 
literally  starved  to  death,  by  his  son. 

When  It  again  left  me,  none  of  that  list, 
whose  first  is  Cain,  suffered  with  my  suffering. 

As  I  had  foreseen,  my  father  had  made  no 
will,  and  I  was  sole  heir.  I  am  living  in  the 
house  that  was  my  home,  but  no  servant  re 
mains  with  me  four  and  twenty  hours.  No  man 
calls  me  friend,  and  of  them  all  none  can 
answer  why !  My  sole  resource  is  work,  and 
far  into  the  night  I  write  the  chapters  on  the 
"  Pathology  of  the  Mind  "  that  will  some  day 
be  given  to  the  world  that  will  no  longer 
accept  my  daily  labor. 

I  have  prepared  this  record  for  the  woman 
I  have  never  ceased  to  love,  to  be  given  to 
her  after  my  death.  Perhaps  what  is  dark 
in  it  may  be  clear  to  her  higher  light,  her 
finer,  purer  spirit. 

November  5,  —  Three  weeks  have  elapsed 
since  writing  the  above  pages,  and  in  all  that 
time  I  have  been  free.  Suppose  —  but  I  dare 
not  picture  to  myself  the  possibility  of  a  life 
free  from  curse.  Yet  since  that  tenth  of 
September  there  has  never  been  so  long  an 
interval  that  It  has  left  me  undisturbed. 


THE   TENTH   OF   SEPTEMBER     127 

November  6.  —  I  saw  and  spoke  with  her 
to-day,  for  the  first  time  since  that  meeting  in 
my  father's  study.  I  dared  not  have  spoken, 
nor  even  have  lifted  my  eyes  to  her  face,  but 
she  paused  and  held  out  her  hand  to  me  — 
to  me! 

"  Helena !  "  and  as  hands  and  eyes  met,  I 
knew  that  her  love  was  as  changeless  as  my 
own. 

"  I  was  sorry  for  your  father's  death,"  she 
said.  "  I  could  not  have  grieved  more,  for 
you  and  for  myself,  if  I  had  really  been  the 
daughter  that  I  once  thought  to  be,"  she 
added,  with  her  own  directness  and  sim 
plicity. 

"  Sorry  —  for  me  ?  "  I  stammered. 

"  It  has  not  been  you  I  have  blamed,"  she 
made  answer  softly. 

"  May  I  come  to  see  you — sometimes?" 
I  asked  eagerly.  "I  —  I  would  only  remain 
a  few  minutes.  I  would  only  look  upon  your 
face,  and  go  without  a  word,"  I  pleaded. 

Ah,  the  time  when  the  evenings  at  her  side 
were  all  too  short  for  both  ! 

"  It  is  better  that  you  do  not,"  she  answered, 
with  more  than  the  old-time  gentleness.  "  My 
prayers  will  always  and  forever  be  yours,  but 
—  you  have  a  wife,"  and  to  the  sweet  inex- 
orableness  of  her  tone  I  bared  my  head,  for 
to  her  the  marriage  service  speaks  with  her 


128  TALES 

own  truth,  and  what  her  God  has  joined  to 
gether,  only  He  can  put  asunder. 

November  29.  —  Still  free. 

December  5.  —  Another  week  has  passed 
without  Its  presence.  I  have  dared  to  picture 
to  myself  the  future,  if  It  has  left  me  for  the 
last  time.  Surely  men  would  take  me  once 
more  by  the  hand  when  indefinable  horror  no 
longer  thrills  them  with  the  touch.  Perhaps 
Heaven,  relentless  to  my  prayers,  may,  in 
answer  to  hers,  vouchsafe  me  the  mercy  of 
atonement,  in  small  measure,  for  my  sin,  by 
offering  a  life  for  a  life.  Yet,  oh,  if  in  that 
future  I  could  see  one  face,  could  have  one 
faint  hope  that  on  some  blessed  far-off  day 
Helena  might  be  mine !  —  It  is  too  much  to 
plead  for  happiness. 

O  God,  if  there  be  a  God,  I  ask  but  the 
opportunity  of  once  again  serving  my  fellow- 
men  ! 

Yet,  come  what  may,  I  can  never  be  alone 
again,  for  I  know  that  one  heart  is  filled  with 
love  for  me.  My  darling,  forgive  me  the 
misery  I  have  wrought  you  !  I  implore  for 
future  as  well  as  for  past,  for  in  spite  of  my 
self,  my  heart  misgives  me.  Myself  has 
become  a  Horror. 

December  10.  —  Two  months  have  now 
elapsed,  and  day  by  day  hope  grows  brighter. 
A  servant  has  remained  with  me  for  a  week. 


THE   TENTH    OF   SEPTEMBER     129 

I  can  see  a  change  in  my  own  face  as  I  sur 
vey  its  features  in  the  mirror,  with  the  scru 
tiny  of  a  girl  of  sixteen,  on  rising. 

I  dare  to  hope. 

December  n.  —  For  the  first  time  for  many 
months  a  patient  has  sought  me.  I  could 
not  have  given  him  more  flattering  attention 
had  I  been  a  young  physician  with  his  first 
case.  Moreover,  the  man  himself  interested 
me.  He  entered  the  office  quietly,  and 
described  his  symptoms  with  brevity  and 
intelligence,  unconsciously  telling  more  than 
he  uttered. 

It  appeared  that  he  was  a  plumber  by 
trade,  and  that  while  at  work  in  a  house  at 
the  old  West  End  a  rat  had  bitten  him.  He 
sought  my  advice  regarding  the  unhealed 
wound. 

"  It  seems  that  you  are  troubled  with  rats, 
too,  sir,"  he  remarked,  as  I  examined  his 
hand.  "  In  fact,  it  is  singular  how  many  of 
the  finest  houses  in  the  city  are  so  infested. 
As  soon  as  I  step  into  a  house,  I  see  a  rat 
scampering  through  the  hall.  Doesn't  it  dis 
turb  you  when  one  races  over  the  table  like 
that?" 

"Was  there  more  than  one?" 

"There  is  never  but  one.  He  was  like  the 
fellow  that  bit  me,  with  a  long  tail  and  red 
eyes.  I  have  always  been  afraid  of  rats,  — 


130  TALES 

I  never  undertake  a  job  without  tremor, — 
although,  as  one  may  say,  my  life  has  been 
passed  amongst  them.  What!  no  fee?  " 

It  would  have  been  useless  to  argue  with 
my  patient  concerning  his  delusion.  On 
all  other  points  perfectly  sane,  he  doubtless 
went  about  his  business  with  as  much  intelli 
gence  as  though  he  was  not  afflicted  with 
this  curious  mania.  Arguments  would  have 
been  wasted  in  seeking  to  convince  him  of 
the  non-existence  of  the  ghostly  rat.  He 
might  even  have  talked  and  compared  notes 
with  a  man  having  essentially  the  same 
symptoms,  and  failed  to  recognize  them  as 
his  own.  His  case  adds  an  interesting  illus 
tration  to  the  concluding  chapter  of  my 
"  Pathology  of  the  Mind." 

December  12.  —  Glancing  over  the  morning 
newspaper,  my  eyes  fell  upon  this  item  in  the 
list  of  "Deaths:" 

"  On  the  nth  inst.,  Mabel,  wife  of  Fred 
erick  Martin,  aged  twenty-three  years,  four 
months." 

My  instant  thought  was  Helena.  I  would 
have  asked  no  woman  to  share  my  shadowed 
life,  but  now,  when  It  has  left  me  forever,  and 
the  only  bar,  to  her,  to  our  union  is  removed, 
she  may  be  my  wife.  And  perhaps,  in  time, 
the  memory  of  these  darkened  years  —  O 
God  !  —  again  —  Hel  —  Hel  —  e  — 


MARM    PHCEBE'S    FORTUNE 


MARM  PHCEBE  sat  erect  in  her  favor 
ite  three-cornered  chair  in  the  parlor. 
A  sontag,  of  some  long-ago  indeterminate 
color,  was  drawn  tightly  about  her  meagre 
shoulders.  The  mammoth  white  ruffles  of  a 
close-fitting  cap,  surmounted  by  a  rampant 
bow  of  stiff  black  ribbon,  framed  a  face  that, 
brown  as  though  stained  with  walnut  juice,  had 
the  look  of  mingled  fierceness  and  wistfulness 
not  uncommon  upon  the  faces  of  old  women 
whose  kinsfolk  for  generations  have  gone  down 
to  the  sea  in  ships. 

The  wind  had  been  "  out "  all  day,  and  now, 
in  the  gloaming,  its  threat  was  fulfilled  in  the 
heavy  drops  of  rain  splashing  against  the 
many-paned  windows.  The  room,  with  its 
low  planchment,  its  hair-cloth  furniture  and 
wall-paper  of  stagnant  green  besprawled  with 
livid  spiders,  had  the  musty  smell  peculiar  to 
houses  of  great  antiquity.  Over  the  high, 
narrow  mantel-shelf  hung  the  portrait  of  the 
minister. 


132  TALES 

The  woodeny  features,  the  lack-lustre  eyes 
and  flaccid  mouth  of  the  canvas  gave  no  hint 
of  the  personality  that  had  played  so  momen 
tous  a  part  in  the  terrible  drama  that  closed 
the  seventeenth  century  in  New  England. 
There  was  a  story,  colored  by  the  superstition 
rife  amongst  a  seafaring  folk,  that  pretended 
to  explain  why  the  artist,  though  of  no  mean 
repute  in  his  day  and  generation,  had  so 
signally  failed  in  what  should  have  been  the 
masterpiece  of  his  art.  In  the  possession  of 
the  minister  was  a  negro  slave  woman  named 
Tituba.  She  was  of  an  unruly  temper,  and 
her  master,  after  dealing  with  her  with  exem 
plary  patience,  sold  her  out  of  the  country. 
Still,  it  may  not  have  been  an  ill  fate  that 
consigned  the  old  woman  to  the  Portuguese 
trader,  for  in  the  terrible  days  of  the  witch 
craft  delusion,  no  one's  life  was  safe  from  day 
to  day,  and  a  hasty  word  or  a  mere  slip  of 
the  tongue,  to  say  nothing  of  the  ill-will  of 
malicious  folk,  had  sent  even  good  and  mild- 
mannered  women  to  their  death  on  Gallows 
Hill.  But  Tituba's  rage  at  this  unexpected 
disposition  of  what,  in  her  froward  temper, 
she  had  come  to  regard  as  her  own  body  and 
soul  knew  no  bounds,  and  her  parting  objur 
gation  to  her  master  was  : 

"  Your  pride  shall  go  before  your  destruc 
tion." 


MARM    PHCEBE'S    FORTUNE     133 

The  blow  was  well  aimed,  for  pride  might 
well  have  been  called  the  besetting  sin  of  the 
clergy,  who  aimed  at  nothing  less  than  the 
supreme  control  of  affairs,  civil  as  well  as 
ecclesiastical,  in  the  new  country.  And  was 
not  the  right  divine  of  its  authority  receiving 
triumphant  vindication  in  the  undaunted  front 
it  presented  in  the  present  crisis  —  well  de 
picted  by  the  Reverend  Cotton  Mather  as  "  that 
dark  and  diabolical  confederation  between 
Satan  and  some  of  the  inhabitants,  that  threat 
ened  to  overthrow  and  extirpate  religion  and 
morality,  and  to  establish  the  kingdom  of  the 
Evil  One  in  a  country  which  had  been  dedi 
cated  by  the  prayers  and  tears  and  sufferings 
of  its  pious  fathers  to  God  and  the  Church." 

Pride  it  was  surely,  too,  although  of  a  more 
personal  and  petty  kind,  that  led  the  minis 
ter,  who  in  sooth  was  a  man  of  comely  parts, 
to  expend  the  sum  realized  from  the  sale  of 
Tituba  in  having  his  portrait  painted ;  but 
the  result  was  disappointing,  for  strive  as  the 
artist  would,  only  meaningless  lines,  flat  sur 
faces,  lifeless  color,  represented  his  reverend 
subject;  but,  meantime,  in  the  background, 
there  grew  another  face  —  one  that  the 
painter  had  never  seen  in  life.  Incessantly 
he  overlaid  his  involuntary  work  with  his 
darkest  pigments.  Out  of  the  murky  shad 
ows  the  black  face  slowly  emerged,  and 


134  TALES 

whether  he  would  or  no,  the  hapless  artist 
must  bestow  upon  its  rendering  the  very  tri 
umph  of  his  skill,  till  it  stood  upon  the  canvas 
instinct  with  life  and  wickedness  and  a  wis 
dom  not  of  this  world. 

For  what  work  had  he  been  hired?  Did 
not  the  price  of  his  labor  represent  Tituba, 
body  and  soul?  Tooled  by  that  insistent 
horror,  he  neither  ate  nor  slept  in  the  latter 
days  of  his  task,  and  at  its  completion  broke 
his  brushes  and  went  mad.  In  later  days  the 
tale  was  sometimes  scoffed  at.  Small  wonder, 
it  was  said,  that  the  painter's  hand  had  lost 
its  cunning  and  hallucination  clouded  his 
brain,  when  he  had  "  cried  out "  upon  his 
own  mother,  and  been  witness  to  her  death 
on  Gallows  Hill ! 

It  was  matter  of  history  how,  when  the 
power  of  the  clergy  had  reached  its  height,  it 
was  dealt  its  death-blow  by  Robert  Calef, 
merchant,  of  Boston,  in  his  book  called  the 
"  History  of  the  Witchcraft  Delusion."  Con 
tumely  fell  upon  the  minister,  as  upon  all 
those  actively  engaged  in  the  persecution, 
and  his  last  days  were  those  of  poverty  and 
loneliness. 

Let  one  seek  to  explain  it  as  he  would, 
there  could  be  no  doubt  that  the  old  slave 
woman's  malediction  had  received  repeated 
confirmation  in  every  generation.  Always 


MARM    PHOEBE'S   FORTUNE     135 

had  pride,  the  fulfilment  of  desire,  been  the 
precursor  of  destruction ;  ever,  as  the  brim 
ming  cup  touched  the  lip  of  the  minister's 
ill-fated  descendants,  came  the  fatal  slip ! 

In  Revolutionary  times  there  was  the  colo 
nel,  whose  distinction  it  was  to  have  steered 
the  boat  that  conveyed  Washington  through 
the  floating  ice  of  the  Delaware,  to  Trenton 
and  victory.  The  Old  Town  welcomed  its 
hero's  return  with  frenzied  patriotism  ;  there 
were  but  few  hours  left  of  the  night  when  the 
colonel,  still  clad  in  his  buff  and  blue,  cast 
himself  into  the  three-cornered  chair  in  his 
own  parlor.  There  he  was  found  in  the 
murky  morning  light,  huddled  into  an  inert 
mass,  his  rigid  fingers  clutching  his  drawn 
sword,  and  a  ghastly  terror  in  the  glazed,  wide- 
open  eyes  fixed  upon  the  portrait  of  the  min 
ister,  or,  as  the  gossips  averred,  upon  a  space 
a  little  above  the  minister's  left  shoulder. 
There  was  a  sword-thrust  through  the  canvas 
at  that  spot,  which  doubtless  was  the  animus 
of  the  whispered  tale  of  what  it  was  that  the 
dauntless  soldier  had  vainly  sought  to  master 
with  carnal  weapon.  And  there  was  none  to 
suggest  that  the  colonel  may  have  drank 
once  too  often  to  the  welfare  of  General 
Washington  and  the  new  government. 

But  if  this  evidence  was  not  conclusive, 
what  could  be  said  of  the  fate  of  Marm 


136  TALES 

Phoebe's  own  father?  Many  times  had  the 
captain  sailed  out  of  the  Old  Town  harbor, 
always  to  return  in  safety  and  with  rich  cargo, 
although  those  were  the  days  when  vessels 
were  at  the  mercy  of  every  contrary  wind  and 
delaying  calm ;  when  there  must  be  braved 
the  onslaught  of  Barbary  pirates  and  the 
perils  of  the  voyage  around  the  Horn,  before 
reaching  the  African  coast  and  the  East  Indies, 
where  new  perils  lay  in  wait  in  the  greed  and 
treachery  of  the  natives.  And  now  fresh 
danger  menaced  the  Old  Town  merchantmen, 
in  those  depredations  of  the  French  war-craft 
that  followed  the  war  of  1 8 1 2.  That  voyage  of 
the  brig  "  Cypher  "  to  the  coast  of  Africa  was 
to  be  the  last.  The  captain  had  embarked 
all  his  fortune  in  the  venture,  and  the  return 
freight  of  gold  dust  more  than  realized  his 
fondest  anticipations.  But  there  was  another 
reason  besides  the  thought  of  the  peaceful 
life  he  would  henceforth  lead  on  shore,  in  one 
of  the  stately  mansions  known  as  the  "  King's 
houses,"  for  the  captain's  eagerness  to  sight 
the  Old  Fort.  A  child  had  been  born  to  him 
in  his  absence — the  child  of  his  years.  Her 
name  —  for  with  all  a  sailor's  fervid  piety,  the 
captain  felt  no  doubt  that  his  prayer  for  "a 
little  maid  "  would  be  answered  —  had  been 
decided  upon  before  his  departure  ;  and  in  the 
capacious  blue  sea-chest,  covered  with  the 


HARM    PHCEBE'S    FORTUNE     137 

intricate  carvings  of  a  sailor's  jackknife,  were 
wonderful  playthings  of  coral  and  ivory,  and 
a  big  carved  work-box  filled  with  marvellous 
trays,  for  the  little  girl  who  would  soon  be  old 
enough  to  work  her  "  sampler ;  "  and  in  the 
captain's  cabin-  hung  a  gilded  cage  with  a 
green  and  gold  parrot  which  had  been  taught 
to  say  "  Phoebe,"  in  whimsical  anticipation  of 
the  tender  word.  It  was  the  custom  in  the  Old 
Town  for  the  boys  to  lie  in  wait  at  the  Old  Fort 
when  a  vessel  was  expected  home,  and  as  soon 
as  she  came  in  sight  to  run  with  the  joyful 
news  to  the  sailors'  wives ;  the  expected  gold 
dollar  was  always  gladly  paid.  It  was  early 
one  bright  spring  morning  that  the  tidings  of 
the  brig  "  Cypher's  "  return  were  thus  brought 
to  little  Phoebe's  mother,  who  with  her  baby 
in  her  arms  sped  to  the  Old  Fort.  She  was 
just  in  time  to  see  the  "  Cypher  "  set  upon 
by  a  French  frigate  that  had  been  hovering 
about  the  coast  for  days,  attracted  by  the 
rumor  of  the  brig's  rich  freight.  All 
the  other  ships  of  the  Old  Town,  with  its 
able-bodied  men,  were  at  sea ;  the  frenzied 
remnant  of  the  townsfolk  gathered  on  the 
headland,  and  watched  the  fight,  impotent. 
Gallant  defence  was  made,  but  what  chance 
had  the  poorly  armed  merchantman  against 
a  fully  equipped  man-of-war?  In  one  short 
hour  the  agonized  wife  saw  the  "  Cypher" 


138  TALES 

riddled  with  shot,  boarded  by  the  French, 
and  the  worthless  hulk  turned  adrift. 

Once,  in  her  frenzy,  when  the  fray  was  at 
its  height,  she  held  her  baby  high  in  her  arms, 
out  toward  the  scene  of  combat.  A  sailor, 
who,  sorely  wounded,  was  the  only  man  on 
board  the  brig  who  succeeded  in  reaching  the 
shore,  told  how,  hard  beset,  the  captain  had 
suddenly  seized  his  spyglass  and  directed  it 
toward  the  Old  Fort  —  an  indiscretion  for 
which  he  paid  dearly,  for  the  next  moment  the 
sword  of  the  French  captain  was  through  his 
heart.  A  few  days  later,  the  wreck  of  the 
"  Cypher  "  was  cast  upon  the  shore.  Although 
the  brig  had  been  gutted  of  everything  of 
intrinsic  value,  the  ship's  papers,  the  invoice 
of  the  cargo,  and  the  captain's  private  diary 
were  discovered  intact,  and,  though  drenched 
with  sea  water,  still  legible. 

That  was  the  story  to  which  little  Phoebe 
listened,  almost  at  her  mother's  breast. 
"  Tell  it  again  !  "  and  once  more  the  child 
heard  how  her  father  had  been  cruelly  mur 
dered,  and  how  the  gold  wrested  from  him 
was  to  be  paid  back  to  his  wife  and  child. 
For,  from  the  outset,  it  was  expected  that 
the  American  government  would  assume,  as 
a  tacit  portion  of  the  new  treaty  with  France, 
the  losses  suffered  by  American  shipping  at 
the  hands  of  its  former  allies.  But  delay  and 


HARM    PHCEBE'S   FORTUNE     139 

renewed  promises  and  fresh  complications 
repeated  their  weary  round  from  year  to  year, 
and  still  the  French  Spoliation  Claims  were 
an  unpaid  debt  to  the  descendants  of  the 
brave  sea-captains  of  the  early  century. 

But  Phoebe  never  doubted. 

"Will  it  be  to-morrow?"  and  satisfied 
with  the  answer,  the  child  went  to  sleep 
hugging  to  her  heart  the  forlorn  rag  that  was 
her  childish  "  comfort." 

"  Coom,  choild,  don  yur-rr  c'losh,  'n'  run 
fur-rr  th'  letter !  "  As  far  back  as  memory 
reached,  that  had  been  the  twilight  bidding. 

In  those  far-off  days  the  mail  came  by 
stage-coach,  once  a  week,  from  Boston,  and 
was  deposited  at  the  Fountain  Inn.  Phcebe 
must  traverse  the  long,  shingly  stretch  of 
beach  that  lay  between,  dodging  misshapen 
bowlders,  speeding  past  patches  of  quiver 
ing  marsh-grass  in  which  strange  creatures 
lurked,  and  jumping  pools  of  writhing  sea 
weed,  in  whose  slimy  depths  shapeless  forms 
lay  in  wait ;  while  the  wind  blew  keenly  from 
over  the  open  sea,  and  the  cries  of  the  wraith 
of  Barnegat,  —  the  Shrieking  Woman,  — 
hideously  murdered  by  Old  Town  pirates  of 
eld,  sounded  in  the  child's  ears,  and  gave 
the  last  touch  of  horror  to  the  scene. 

The  French  Spoliation  Claims  stood  to 
little  Phcebe  for  all  the  fairy-lore  familiar  to 


140  TALES 

more  favored  children.  The  three  wishes  of 
elfin  munificence,  the  possession  of  the  purse 
of  Fortunatus,  of  Aladdin's  lamp,  —  all  of 
richness  and  wonder  would  be  realized  when 
the  brig  "  Cypher's  "  freight  was  made  good. 
In  that  day  she  would  play  with  golden  grains 
spread  out  like  the  sands  of  the  seashore  — 
for  in  her  fantasy  it  was  the  "  Cypher's  "  gold- 
dust  that  would  be  brought  back  intact;  she 
would  have  a  monkey  to  play  with,  and  a 
green  and  gold  parrot  in  a  gilded  cage,  that 
would  say  "  Phcebe,"  like  the  one  that  was 
told  about  in  the  last  entry  of  her  father's 
diary. 

As  she  grew  older,  if  her  dreams  became 
more  restrained  they  were  not  less  vivid.  The 
days  of  which  her  mother  told  —  when  the 
Old  Town  had  been  the  chief  port  of  the  East 
India  trade  —  should  be  restored  in  their 
plenitude.  Hogsheads  of  molasses,  and  rich, 
spicy  brown  sugar  should  stand  in  the  store 
room,  with  store  of  cocoanuts,  and  oranges, 
and  bananas,  and  tamarinds  —  out  of  which 
to  make  delectable  "tamarind  water;  "  there 
should  be  barrels  of  pickled  limes ;  and  of 
guava  jelly  and  other  rich,  strange,  foreign 
sweetmeats,  galore.  She  would  wear  gowns 
of  cool  seersucker  and  soft,  lustrous  India 
silk,  and  would  deck  herself  in  rich  cashmere 
shawls  and  sweeping  ostrich  plumes ;  and  she 


MARM    PHCEBE'S   FORTUNE     141 

would  carry  a  sweet-smelling  sandalwood  fan 
and  a  carved  ivory  card-case. 

Before  Phoebe  had  fairly  outgrown  child 
hood,  the  burden  of  two  lives  was  laid  upon 
her  shoulders.  Her  mother  had  never  re 
covered  from  the  shock  of  that  hour  at  the 
Old  Fort;  incessant  toil  and  meagre  fare 
completed  the  ill  work,  and  a  stroke  of  pa 
ralysis  rendered  her  helpless. 

She  sat,  day  after  day,  in  the  quaint  old 
three-cornered  chair,  with  her  piercing  eyes, 
to  which  had  come  the  renewed  vision  some 
times  bestowed  by  advanced  years,  never 
leaving  the  portrait  over  the  mantel-shelf. 
Sometimes  she  would  nod  her  head,  and, 
pointing  her  skinny  forefinger  at  the  broken 
place  in  the  canvas,  utter  shrill,  unfathomable 
gibberish.  Some  hallucination  concerned  with 
the  portrait  she  undoubtedly  had,  but  it  was 
not  worth  while  to  try  to  unravel  the  thread- 
ings  of  a  tangled  mind,  nor,  in  a  soil  where 
every  germ  of  superstition  found  rank  growth, 
to  heed  the  whisper  that  the  old  woman's 
marvellous  vision  had  pierced  beyond  the 
shadows  into  the  background  of  the  picture. 

At  the  best,  Phoebe  could  earn  but  a 
meagre  pittance  oiling  fishermen's  clothes  and 
"  bushelling,"  as  the  rough  mending  of 
the  fisherfolk  was  called ;  for  the  town  had 
never  recovered  from  the  blow  dealt  its  ship- 


142  TALES 

ping  by  the  French  war-craft,  and  its  inter 
ests  had  dwindled  to  those  of  a  mere  fishing- 
hamlet  Only  once  had  a  gleam  of  sunlight 
found  its  way  to  Phcebe's  darkened  life.  That 
was  when  she  and  William  Dolliver  were 
"  keeping  company."  When  or  how  the  twain, 
in  their  lives  of  incessant  toil,  found  time  to 
make  known  their  mutual  love  by  so  much 
as  a  tender  glance  or  a  lingering  pressure  of 
the  hand  could  not  be  told  ;  but  one  evening 
Lum  Dolliver  asked  Phoebe  to  accompany 
him  to  the  Old  Fort,  where  time  out  of  mind 
Old  Town  lovers  had  strayed.  It  was  then 
that  he  put  his  arm  around  her  and  called  her 
his  "  sweetheart." 

The  next  day,  the  fishing-smack  of 
which  he  was  part  owner  set  sail  for  the 
Grand  Banks,  and  was  lost,  with  all  on  board, 
in  the  well-remembered  gale  that  swept  away 
most  of  the  Old  Town  fishing-craft  and 
doomed  the  town  to  yet  further  narrowness 
.and  squalor.  To  Phcebe  there  came  scarcely 
a  pang  at  her  lover's  loss.  Youth  and  natural 
desire  had  responded  to  that  hour  at  the  Old 
Fort,  but  one  idea  had  dominated  her  life  too 
long  to  be  easily  supplanted  by  another. 

The  Old  Town  had  always  held  itself  aloof 
from  its  neighbors,  in  a  certain  inexplicable 
pride  of  isolation.  Following  the  September 
gale,  no  breath  of  the  world's  great  life  ever 


MARM   PHCEBE'S   FORTUNE     143 

reached  its  borders ;  widowed  and  orphaned, 
its  women,  with  strange,  fierce  resentment 
against  a  world  that  had  no  sorrow  like  unto 
their  sorrow,  hooted  the  stranger  from  out 
the  ways ;  the  very  children  stoned  the  vent 
uresome  traveller  who  set  foot  within  its  con 
fines.  Even  the  houses  seemed  to  have 
caught  the  infection  of  sullen  hermithood, 
and  with  their  bull's-eye  doors  and  the  queer 
outside  staircases  known  as  "  standards," 
climbed  up  on  the  high  rocky  ledges,  drew 
up  their  skirts  around  them,  and  sat  down 
with  their  backs  upon  the  labyrinth  of  nar 
row,  crooked  lanes  below. 

One  morning  Marm  Phoebe's  mother  was 
found  dead  in  the  three-cornered  chair,  her 
wide-open  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the  minister's 
portrait.  An  old  woman,  if  not  in  years,  in 
stiffened  limbs  and  stiffer  habits  of  life,  Marm 
Phcebe  lived  on  alone  —  with  the  added  mis 
ery  of  not  knowing  her  own  loneliness.  The 
visions  of  comfort  and  plenty  had  disap 
peared  like  the  fantasies  of  her  childhood. 
Merely  to  touch  and  handle  the  gold,  to  dab 
ble  her  hands  in  the  yellow  grains  and  let 
them  slip  through  her  fingers,  —  in  that 
thought  she  lived  and  moved  and  had  her 
being.  It  mattered  not  that  to  the  generation 
that  had  arisen  "  Marm  Phoebe's  fortune  "  was 
a  legend,  classed  with  that  of  the  Shrieking 


144  TALES 

Woman.  Every  twilight  the  quaint  green 
calash  appeared  at  the  window  of  the  post- 
office  with  the  query,  "  Has  th'  letter  coom?  " 
and  at  the  inevitable  answer  turned  away  —  to 
wait  till  to-morrow.  Hope  was  not  the  lovely 
being  hidden  in  the  box  of  Troubles.  It  was 
the  terrible  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  strangled  in 
one  form  only  to  reappear  in  another  hideous, 
mocking  shape. 

She  had  not  failed  to-night  of  her  usual 
mission  because  of  a  first  faint  chill  mis 
giving  ;  at  least,  none  was  present  to  her 
active  consciousness.  She  had  the  molly- 
grubs,  she  told  herself,  and  her  customary 
supper  of  dry  bread,  and  tea  without  milk  or 
sugar,  had  not  "  set  jist  right." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  window.  The 
stunted  figure  of  the  postmaster's  son  stood 
on  tiptoe  without,  wildly  waving  some  white 
object.  Marm  Phoebe  raised  the  window  a 
crack. 

"  Chuck !  "  called  out  the  boy,  and  a 
letter  whirled  across  the  room.  The  messen 
ger  was  off  like  the  wind,  and  Marm  Phcebe 
shut  the  window,  secured  its  primitive  fasten 
ing,  closed  the  inside  shutters,  and  deliberately 
hooked  the  upper  and  lower  set.  Then  she  lit 
the  lamp  and  picked  up  the  big  envelope. 
There  was  no  thrill  of  happy  surmise  in  the 
touch,  deliciously  prolonged  by  toying  with 


MARM    PHCEBE'S   FORTUNE     145 

the  missive,  by  examining  the  official  imprint 
in  the  corner,  by  playing  at  ignorance  of  its 
contents.  The  world  held  but  one  letter. 
The  expected  had  happened. 

She  searched  in  her  work-basket  for  the 
scissors,  cut  open  the  envelope,  and  read, 
word  by  word,  the  formal  statement  of  the 
Court  of  Claims  :  in  effect,  that  the  evidence 
respecting  the  brig  "  Cypher  "  had  been  ad 
mitted,  and  reimbursement  made  accordingly, 
out  of  the  French  Spoliation  Fund.  Accom 
panying  was  another  paper. 

It  was  a  treasury  warrant  for  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  dollars. 

Hope  sloughed  once  again,  and  snaked 
forth  —  Realization ;  and  its  substance  was 
shadow,  and  its  grasp  nothingness. 

A  wave  of  loneliness  and  emptiness  and 
unutterable  desolation  swept  over  Marm 
Phoebe.  The  very  reason  and  substance  of 
being  had  been  stricken  from  her,  and  all  she 
had  in  its  stead  was  a  scrap  of  paper !  And 
her  head  ached,  and  her  eyes  swam,  and  she 
was  strangely  tired.  From  some  undefined 
impulse  that  perhaps  had  its  root  in  an  un 
recognized  need  of  sympathy,  perhaps  from 
an  undefined  distrust  of  the  shadows  on  the 
portrait,  she  glanced  suddenly  upward,  but 
only  the  woodeny  features  of  her  reverend 
ancestor  responded. 


146  TALES 

She  was  conscious  of  a  vague  discomfort, 
as  though  some  one,  invisible  to  her,  was 
watching  her  intently ;  there  was  a  reflection 
of  her  mother's  demented  rage  in  the  resent 
ment  that  glowed  dully  against  somebody 
who -was  spying  upon  her.  Wait,  she  would 
fix  the  old  witch-woman  !  She  would  turn 
her  portrait  face  to  the  wall ! 

With  frenzied  haste  Marm  Phoebe  dragged 
the  chair  to  the  mantel-shelf,  mounted  it, 
and,  exerting  all  her  strength,  swung  the  por 
trait  around.  The  extent  of  the  injury  done 
by  the  colonel  in  his  drunken  rage  was  thus 
revealed ;  the  sword  had  broken  through  the 
thin  board  backing,  and  as  the  picture  was  re 
moved  from  its  support  against  the  wall,  a 
splinter  fell  away,  revealing  a  roll  of  parch 
ment  that  had  been  carefully  concealed  in 
the  interior.  Marm  Phoebe  pulled  it  out, 
without  surprise  or  curiosity.  In  the  strange 
numbness  that  seemed  to  be  stealing  over 
her  mental  faculties  as  well  as  her  physical 
members,  if  the  minister  himself  had  stepped 
out  and  down  from  the  frame,  it  would 
scarcely  have  aroused  emotion.  She  drew 
near  the  lamp  and  prepared  to  read  the 
message  so  strangely  brought  to  light,  in  the 
perfunctory  way  in  which  one  might  peruse 
an  indifferent  letter  placed  in  one's  hand. 
She  recognized  the  quaint,  crabbed  hand- 


HARM    PHCEBE'S   FORTUNE     147 

writing  of  the  parchment  as  the  minister's ; 
and  even  to  her  beclouded  faculties  straggled 
the  perception  that  her  reverend  ancestor 
had  taken  advantage  of  the  ill  repute  of  his 
own  portrait  to  consign  some  secret  to  its 
keeping. 

I  write  these  Pages  —  y*  Inner  Rec*  of  y"  Proceed 
ings  that  have,  of  late,  inflamd  All  New  England  — 
that  future  Generations  may  justify  Mine  Own  Conduct 
therein,  &  that  of  y*  Holy  Man  of  God,  y  Revd  Cot 
ton  Mather. 

My  Daughter  Elizabeth  &  My  Niece  Abigail  found 
Plesure  in  listening  to  y*  Tales  of  my  old  Negro  Slave 
Woman,  Tituba  by  Name,  bought  by  mee  whilst  a 
Merchant  in  y°  Spanish  Main.  More  especially  they 
hearkened  to  her  Narrative  of  a  Strange  Powr  pos 
sess4  by  some  of  her  Race,  known  as  Hoodoo,  &  by 
them  chiefly  used  to  y*  Discomfiture  of  their  Enemies. 
For  a  long  Time,  y*  Old  Woman  professed  to  bee  un 
able,  herself,  to  Produce  any  of  These  same  Marvells ; 
but  y°  fervid  Intrest  of  y*  Children  at  last  moved  her 
to  give  some  slight  Attestation  of  y*  Strange  Powr. 
Y'  Story  was  privily  Whispered  to  a  Playmate,  Ann 
Putnam  by  Name  &  Tituba  Yield4,  after  no  Great 
Solicitation,  to  y*  Pleading,  "  Do  it  again."  By  Hints 
&  Mysterious  half  told  Tales,  y'  Curiosity  of  various 
Goodwives  in  y*  Neighborhood  was  now  aroused  &  y' 
Circle  gradually  Increas*,  meeting  Regularly  at  y* 
Houses  of  y'  Different  Members,  at  such  Times  as 
y*  Goodman  of  y*  House  might  bee  absent.  One 
after  Another  of  y*  Circle,  intoxicated  by  y*  Discovery 
of  her  own  Possession  of  y"  Strange  Powr,  was  led 
Farther  &  yet  Farther,  to  its  Excise.  I  will  add  that 
Goodwife  Bishop,  Goodwife  Corey  £  Others  who  suf- 


1 48  TALES 

fered  Death  as  Witches  upon  Gallows  Hill,  began 
their  Practises  with  no  Other  Intent  than  y"  Gratifica 
tion  of  Their  Idle  Curiosity ;  misled  by  y*  Strange 
Powr  so  unexpectedly  evoked,  they  put  it  to  Unlawful 
Ends,  &  Whither  it  may  carry  any  one  not  having  y* 
Fear  of  God  before  his  Eyes,  I  know  not. 

Of  All  y*  Arts  known  to  Tituba,  I  am  not  acquaint 
ed;  but  Chief  amongst  Them,  when  she  would  Prac 
tise  upon  One  Present  in  y*  Flesh,  was  to  hold  Before 
his  Eyes  a  Certain  Bright  Stone,  —  always  worn  by 
her  around  her  Neck,  —  with  y"  Result,  too  Marvellous 
of  Credence  had  I  not  been  Privily  Witness  thereto,  of 
Producing  a  Belief  in  All  Manner  of  Unrealities ;  & 
what  may  bee  y*  Limits  of  ye  Strange  Powr,  in  Extent, 
or  Time,  or  Space,  is  not  for  mee  to  Affirm.  But  thus 
far  it  is  given  mee  to  Speak  with  Certitude. 

There  bee  a  Certain  Powr  invested  in  Men,  by  w*, 
with  y*  Aid  of  a  Bright  Stone  or  like  Object,  held 
close  before  y*  Eyes,  they  may  exert  Strange  Influence 
over  their  Fellow  Beings,  so  that  these  last  shall  have 
no  Sense,  nor  Desire,  nor  Will,  save  that  of  their 
Masters.  They  shall  shrink  from  no  Command  that 
is  laid  upon  them ;  they  shall  Think  &  Talk  &  Act, 
like  Creatures  Possess4  of  Understanding,  yet  be  with 
out  Present  Wit  or  after  Recollection,  of  that  w"1  they 
have  thought  &  said  &  wrought ;  &  y*  Knowledge  of  ye 
Strange  Powr  was  possess*  by  Prophets  &  Wise  Men 
of  old,  in  y*  far  East  &  in  y*  Land  of  y*  Pharaohs ; 
&  it  was  Guarded  by  these  from  y*  People,  to  y* 
Great  Furthrance  of  y*  Might  of  ye  Priesthood.  &  This 
it  is  given  to  mee  to  Speak  upon  y  Attestation  of  y« 
Rev*  Cotton  Mather,  who  in  his  great  Learning  &  his 
Knowledge  of  many  Tongues,  had  Acquaintance  with 
y"  Strange  Powr.  Of  y*  Extent  of  his  Knowledge  & 
whether  he  himself  practised  therein,  I  know  naught, 
&  This  I  do  affirm  upon  my  most  Solemn  Oath. 


MARM    PHOEBE'S   FORTUNE     149 

His  Acquaintance  with  y"  Events  here  set  down 
followed  close  upon  Mine  Own,  for  I  deemed  it  wise 
to  obtain  ye  Light  of  his  great  Learning  &  Piety  upon 
Matters  woh  pressed  heavily  upon  mine  Own  Humble 
Understanding.  It  was  my  farther  good  Hap,  to 
receive  from  him,  from  Time  to  Time,  divers  & 
various  Instructions  how  to  fan  y«  Spark  into  a  Blaze, 
for  y"  Maintenance  &  greater  Powr  of  ye  Church  in 
New  England,  whose  Champion  he  was,  So  that,  to 
use  the  words  of  his  own  Pious  Exhortation,  "  It  shall 
enable  us  so  to  Box  it  about  amongst  ourselves,  till  it 
come  I  know  not  where,  at  last." 

Let  them  who  raise  y*  Spell,  beware  y'  Fiend.  Y* 
Madness  of  y'  People  went  beyond  Guidance  or 
Control;  &  as  it  was  written,  "  Y"  Brother  shall 
betray  y'  Brother  to  Deathe  &  y"  Fathr  y6  Son ;  & 
Children  shall  rise  up  against  their  Parents  &  shall 
cause  Them  to  bee  put  to  Deathe,"  aye,  even  to  y° 
Heavy  Deathe. 

Ye  Humor  of  y'  People  veered  &  catching  up  y* 
Bell  of  y"  Arch  Traitor  &  Infidel,  Rob'  Calef,  Merchant, 
of  Boston,  hound  upon  us  with  y*  Cry,  "Delusion!" 
Y'  Revd  Cotton  Mather  is  reviled  &  insulted  in  y* 
very  Streets  of  Boston,  late  y*  Citadel  of  God's  Powr 
in  y*  New  World.  Y"  Judge  who  passed  Sentence 
upon  those  now  termed  "  Martyrs"  doeth,  yearly,  Public 
Penance  for  his  Unjust  Judgments.  I  am  cried  out 
Upon  for  greater  Wickedness  than  any  proven  against 
those  who  suffer4.  Ye  Civic  Pew*  of  y'  Clergy  is 
stricken  from  them  forever ;  nay,  its  Powp  in  y'  Spirit 
ual  Guidance  of  y*  People  has  recd  so  deadly  a  Blow 
that  henceforth  &  forever,  we  shall  bee  looked  upon 
but  as  Blind  Mouths.  Blood  will  swim  before  Men's 
Eyes  when  they  turn  them  upon  God's  Ministers,  and 
good  Men  &  True  shall  Turn  themselves  away  from 
Ghostly  Counsel. 


ISO  TALES 

Y*  Witches  were  no  "Martyrs."  They  met  their 
just  Deserts. 

When,  Centuries  hence,  Men  shall  have  recov4  from 
y*  Evil  Days  upon  w"*  we  are  fallen  &  shall  seek  En 
lightened  Understanding  of  y*  Strange  Powr,  not  to  y* 
Flickring  Strength  of  Priestcraft  shall  Knowledge  bee 
given. 

Unto  that  day,  committing  y*  Discovery  of  these 
Pages  to  y*  Providence  Men  call  Chance,  I  leave  my 
Words  of  Revelation  &  Warning. 

"Cat's    foot!"    ejaculated    Marm    Phoebe. 

Witchcraft,  as  embodied  in  the  old  tales  of 
a  midnight  mass  presided  over  by  a  black 
man  with  a  long,  narrow  red  book,  —  the 
ledger  of  lost  souls,  —  might  have  ground  for 
belief;  uncanny  concomitant  stories  familiar 
in  the  Old  Town  bore  out  its  plausibility. 
There  was  Lum  Dolliver's  mother,  who  saw 
the  vessel  that  bore  her  son  to  destruction 
take  on  the  form  of  a  shroud  as  it  rounded 
the  Old  Fort.  And  had  not  Marm  Cas'll,  at 
the  very  moment  her  twin  brother  was 
drowned  off  the  Horn,  awaked  with  the  taste 
of  salt  water  in  her  mouth,  and  the  sensation 
of  being  strangled?  But  this  stuff  about  a 
"strange  power  "that  made  people  puppets 
in  its  hands  was  not  to  be  hearkened  to  by 
any  one  who  knew  how  many  blue  beans  it 
took  to  make  seven. 

Without  more  ado,  Marm  Phcebe  held  the 
MS.,  sheet  by  sheet,  over  the  flame  of  the 


HARM    PHCEBE'S    FORTUNE     151 

lamp,  and  watched  them  consume  to  her 
finger  tips.  As  though  the  blaze  of  that  last 
scrap  of  paper  possessed,  like  the  dervish's 
ointment,  some  mystic  power  of  illumination, 
for  the  space  of  its  brief  light  there  glowed 
before  her  mental  vision  the  utmost  meaning 
and  glory  of  her  wealth.  The  golden  fan 
tasies  of  childhood,  the  dreams  of  peace  and 
plenty  of  her  maturer  years,  the  rapture  of 
handling  the  vast  sum  over  which  her  age 
had  gloated,  —  all,  all  were  hers  !  The  salt 
breath  of  the  ocean  fanned  her  cheek;  she 
felt  the  touch  of  Lum  Dolliver's  strong,  manly 
arm,  and  heard  his  whisper,  "  My  sweetheart !" 

Not  from  her  parched  lip  had  the  brim 
ming  cup  been  dashed ! 

Wait,  she  would  show  the  fortune  to  the 
black  woman  who  was  always  trying  to  wreak 
her  vengeance  upon  her  and  hers.  She 
would  flaunt  the  priceless  paper  in  Tituba's 
face  and  scoff  her  and  laugh  at  her !  With 
frenzied  haste  Marm  Phoebe  pushed  the 
chair  to  the  mantel-shelf  again,  and  replaced 
the  minister's  portrait  in  its  position.  Some 
where,  out  there  in  the  shadows,  Tituba  was 
lurking.  She  could  see,  if  she  could  not  be 
seen.  She  should  part  her  huge  lips  and 
gnash  her  hideous  white  teeth,  impotent ! 

Marm  Phoebe  turned  to  the  table.  The 
scrap  of  paper  was  not  there.  She  searched 


152  TALES 

the  floor,  the  chairs,  and  even  peered  behind 
the  shutters,  in  vain.  Bewildered,  her  un 
thinking  glance  rested  on  the  heap  of  charred 
fragments  beside  the  lamp,  and  the  truth 
burst  upon  her. 

She  had  burnt  the  treasury  warrant ! 

The  face  of  the  minister  had  become 
blurred.  What  gleamed  there  over  his  shoul 
der  —  a  double  gleam,  like  the  white  of 
glaring  eyeballs !  The  background  of  the 
picture  was  melting  away.  What  was  that 
coming  nearer  —  and  yet  nearer !  Why 
should  mere  shadows  take  on  a  look  of  un 
speakable,  monstrous  triumph ! 

"  She  was  took  like  her  mother,"  said  the 
neighbors  the  following  day,  when  Marm 
Phoebe  was  found  huddled  into  an  inert  heap 
on  the  parlor  floor.  One  rigid  hand  clutched 
a  round  of  the  three-cornered  chair,  and  the 
lack-lustre  eyes  were  fixed,  in  their  last  gaze, 
upon  the  portrait  of  the  minister. 


THE   SATYR'S    HEAD 

THE  students  had  gathered  around  the 
figure  that  the  master  was  displaying. 
The  distorted  features,  the  strained  muscles, 
the  agonized  tension  of  the  ringers,  were 
exquisitely  wrought  in  a  composition  of 
tawny  red,  shading  into  bronze.  After  a 
brief  glance,  a  short,  thick-set  girl,  with 
coarse,  black  hair  and  a  freckled  face,  re 
turned  to  her  work. 

"  It  is  a  miniature  copy  of  the  life-size 
original  in  the  museum  at  Montevideo,"  ex 
plained  the  master.  "  There  had  been  a 
battle  between  the  Spaniards  and  the  Indians. 
Whichever  side  wins  in  these  frequent  out 
breaks,  the  half-breeds  —  the  Gauchos — suffer. 
If  one  asks,  'Were  many  killed?'  the  reply 
is,  '  Oh,  only  a  few  Gauchos,'  as  though  they 
were  vermin.  I  went  to  the  battlefield  after 
the  fight.  This  fellow  lay  gasping  for  water. 
Luckily,  the  brook  was  at  some  distance, 
and  I  worked  fast.  Look  at  the  pose  !  "  he 
added,  with  enthusiasm.  He  spoke  as  he 


154  TALES 

had  acted  when  a  dying  man's  unslaked 
agony  was  the  price  of  his  art. 

Margaret  Lane  returned  to  her  place  at 
last  beside  the  girl  with  the  coarse  face  and 
coarser  ways. 

"  How  could  you  look  upon  the  man's 
suffering? "  demanded  the  latter,  and  her 
voice  completed  the  impression  of  a  hard, 
assertive  personality. 

"  Art  is  impersonal,"  answered  the  other 
girl  coldly,  in  her  clear,  full-toned  enunci 
ation. 

"The  artist  cannot  separate  himself  from 
his  art,"  said  Martha  Graves,  vehemently; 
"  no  one  can  rise  above  his  own  level." 

"  Have  you  been  long  in  a  position  to 
define  art?"  inquired  Miss  Lane,  courteously. 

Usually  she  sought  no  reason  for  her 
instant  attractions  and  antipathies,  perhaps 
even  priding  herself  upon  them  as  part  and 
proof  of  the  artistic  temperament.  But  her 
dislike  of  Martha  Graves  —  dating  from  her 
first  glance  at  the  latter's  work  —  she  had 
sedulously  sought  to  justify.  And  ample 
cause  surely  lay  in  her  neighbor's  shabby, 
often  untidy  gown,  her  thick,  repulsive 
fingers,  more  suited  to  factory  work  than  to 
the  delicate  manipulation  of  clay;  deeper 
still  in  the  fact  that  she  had  been  working  in 
a  Brockton  shoe-shop ;  and  that  a  common 


THE   SATYR'S   HEAD  155 

mill-hand  should  presume  to  enter  a  sculp 
tor's  studio  was  an  insult  to  art  to  be  justly 
resented  by  one  who  had  been  born  and  bred 
in  the  inner  circles  of  Boston  culture. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  Margaret  Lane's 
example  was  infectious  that  Martha  Graves' 
easel,  the  solitary  exception,  was  never  sur 
rounded  by  a  group  of  fellow-students,  and 
assailed  by  the  free,  bold  criticism  that  is  in 
itself  so  important  an  element  of  class  work. 
Not  so  much  as  a  passing  glance  was  ever 
vouchsafed  the  efforts,  presumptuous  if  not 
so  ludicrous,  of  the  factory  girl.  But  her 
coarse-fibred,  positive  nature  was  proof 
against  the  silent  snubs  and  unspoken  dis 
like,  even  if  she  noticed  them ;  she  only 
worked  with  feverish  energy,  and  was  the 
first  to  come  and  the  last  to  leave  the 
studio. 

No  one  knew  how  it  had  leaked  out  that 
Martha  Graves'  art  education  was  a  hand  to 
mouth  struggle,  and  that  her  sole  means  of 
support  were  the  savings  from  her  meagre 
wages  in  the  shoe  factory.  Her  sack  was 
threadbare,  and  her  overshoes  but  a  mockery 
of  protection  against  the  snow  and  slush  of 
an  unusually  severe  winter.  She  lived  in  a 
hall  bedroom,  three  flights  back,  in  a  narrow, 
sunless  street  in  a  squalid  part  of  the  South 
End,  where  she  prepared  her  own  scanty 


156  TALES 

meals  over  a  little  ill-smelling  kerosene 
stove.  There  was  a  seamstress  who  had  a 
room  on  the  same  floor,  who  was  occasion 
ally  employed  by  Mrs.  Lane.  Margaret 
Lane  held  herself  above  listening  to  "  servants' 
tattle,"  but  a  few  chance  words  concerning 
the  seamstress's  neighbor  may  have  fallen  on 
her  unheeding  ears.  There  was  no  one  to 
guess  that  Martha  Graves'  present  life  was 
the  bright  and  beautiful  realization  of  the 
dream  of  a  lifetime. 

For  the  past  few  weeks  the  atmosphere  of 
the  studio  had  been  rarefied  with  struggle. 
A  well-known  art-patron  had  offered  a  schol 
arship  —  three  years'  study  abroad  —  to  the 
pupil  who  should  produce  the  best  piece  of 
work  within  a  specified  time.  Margaret  Lane's 
choice  of  subject  was  the  thorn-crowned  head 
of  Christ.  Martha  Graves'  was  a  satyr's  head. 
Both  girls  were  working  from  photographs. 
The  present  week  closed  the  time  allowed 
for  the  work,  when  the  various  clay  models 
were  to  be  cast  in  plaster  and  submitted  to 
the  art  committee. 

In  cold,  impartial  self-criticism,  Margaret 
Lane  had  measured  her  own  work  against 
that  of  the  others,  and  knew  that  there  could 
be  no  doubt  of  the  issue.  In  another  week  her 
name  would  be  on  every  one's  lips  as  the 
winner  of  the  most  important  art  scholarship 


THE   SATYR'S    HEAD  157 

of  the  year,  and  she  drew  a  long  breath  of 
rapture  as  the  future  arose  before  her.  Three 
years  in  Italy,  consecrated  to  art,  and  with 
the  inspiring  consciousness  that  her  own 
talent  had  paved  the  way  !  A  scornful  look 
crossed  her  face  as  she  thought  of  Martha 
Graves  and  her  delusion.  Almost,  at  that 
moment  of  exaltation,  she  could  have  pitied 
her! 

Her  neighbor  had  not  been  in  the  studio 
to-day  nor  yesterday.  Some  impulse  of  auto 
matic  memory  recalled  the  fact  that  Martha 
Graves  had  been  absent  since  the  morning 
they  had  exchanged  impressions  regarding  the 
Dying  Gaucho.  Led  by  a  sudden  impulse 
that  was  perhaps  mere  aimless  curiosity, 
perhaps  an  undefined  misgiving  that  was 
strangely  tangled  with  her  "  antipathy," 
Margaret  Lane  withdrew  the  wrappings  from 
Martha  Graves'  work  and  stood  transfixed. 

Into  the  clay  had  been  instilled  the  love 
of  mischief,  allied  to  moral  irresponsibility, 
the  working  of  evil  ends  without  evil  intent 
or  stain  of  sin,  whose  possibility  had  ceased 
with  the  evolution  of  the  higher  life.  It  was 
the  satyr  of  heathen  art,  and  not  since  the 
days  of  heathen  art  had  such  a  conception 
found  form  ! 

A  few  more  touches,  scarcely  lacking  even 
to  critical  eyes,  and  then  for  Martha  Graves 


158  TALES 

the  years  in  the  atmosphere  that  would  be 
the  breath  of  home  to  her  exiled  soul,  and 
which  would  unfold  in  her  that  which  Mar 
garet  Lane  knew  her  own  utmost  striving 
could  never  attain. 

In  order  to  keep  the  clay  moist  and  plastic, 
at  the  close  of  the  day's  work  it  was  wet 
down,  either  by  lightly  sprinkling  with  the 
hand  or  by  spraying  with  an  atomizer,  and 
covered  with  cotton  and  rubber  swathings. 
During  Martha  Graves'  absence  no  friendly 
hand  had  cared  for  her  work,  and  the  clay 
was  already  hard  and  dry. 

With  practised  eyes  Margaret  Lane  saw 
that  if  the  satyr's  head  was  not  wet  without 
delay,  another  twenty-four  hours  would  see  it 
ruined.  All  at  once  she  recalled  something 
that  the  seamstress  had  said  about  Miss 
Graves  having  a  cold ;  "  threatened  with 
pneumonia"  —  were  not  those  the  words? 

Dizzy  with  a  sudden  emotion  that  she 
could  not,  or  would  not,  analyze,  Margaret 
Lane  leaned  heavily  against  the  easel.  Out 
of  the  black  mist  came  a  flash  that  wellnigh 
blinded  and  stunned  her.  It  was  generated 
by  the  fusion  of  two  thoughts. 

Martha  Graves  could  not  leave  her  bed. 
Twenty-four  hours  closed  the  contest. 

With  her  hand  clutching  the  atomizer,  she 
lived  years  in  the  next  few  seconds.  For  a 


THE   SATYR'S   HEAD  159 

friend's  sake,  her  haughty,  self-sufficient 
rectitude  might  have  overcome.  But  how 
could  she  sacrifice  her  own  future  for  the  sake 
of  the  hated  factory  girl !  Only  a  moment 
ago  she  had  been  cheated  into  a  thought  of 
pity  for  Martha  Graves'  fatuity  —  and  her 
face  burned  at  her  own  vast  presumption  ! 
The  master  was  approaching.  No  other  eye 
must  look  upon  this  work.  With  tender, 
loving  reverence,  she  replaced  the  swathings 
of  the  satyr's  head. 

The  following  day,  as  the  light  was  waning, 
the  studio  door  was  pushed  rudely  open  and 
a  shabbily  dressed  girl  entered,  breathing 
heavily  and  holding  one  hand  to  her  chest. 
Without  noticing  any  one,  Martha  Graves 
walked  to  her  easel  and  withdrew  carefully, 
but  in  evident  distracted  haste,  the  coverings 
from  the  clay.  The  girl  by  her  side  heard 
the  hoarse  panting  and  knew  that  it  was 
not  caused  by  "  threatened  pneumonia."  A 
student  on  the  other  side  of  the  room  was 
"  packing  the  board  ;  "  that  is,  taking  hand- 
fuls  of  damp  clay  from  the  chest  and  flinging 
them  at  his  feet,  into  a  mass  that  was  to  be 
wrought  into  high  relief.  Margaret  Lane 
counted  the  thuds  as  though  their  enumera 
tion  was  her  chief  concern  in  life. 

"  It  is  finished  !  "  sounded  the  coarse  voice. 
What  fantasy  was  it  that  the  utterance 


1 60  TALES 

brought  to  mind  the  words,  spoken  long  ago, 
by  one  who  hung  upon  the  cross?  Margaret 
Lane  nerved  herself  to  glance  at  her  neigh 
bor's  work. 

The  clay  was  dry  and  shrunken,  and  a  fine 
network  of  lines,  like  the  "  crackle  "  of  por 
celain,  had  taken  the  youth  from  the  face, 
while  its  expression  of  chaste  and  buoyant 
sensuousness  was  curiously  transformed  to  that 
of  bestial  cunning  by  a  jagged  fissure,  leering 
from  one  eye  to  a  corner  of  the  mouth. 
Envy,  hatred,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness 
mocked  from  the  altered  features,  in  the 
distorted  strength  that  has  made  deliberate 
choice  of  evil.  Irresponsibility  was  gone ; 
the  creature  of  the  woods  and  fields  was 
replaced  by  man,  after  the  revelation  of  his 
higher  nature,  and  with  its  claims  ruthlessly 
trampled  upon. 

"  Your  work  is  quite  spoiled.  What  a 
pity !  "  said  Miss  Lane,  with  conventional 
smoothness,  and  despised  herself  for  the 
petty  hypocrisy.  She  worked  steadily  on. 
Blind  and  dizzy  with  exultation,  her  very 
being  seemed  to  impart  itself  to  those  last 
light  touches  on  the  impressionable  clay. 

Thud,  thud  ! 

"  It  sounds  like  the  first  handful  of  earth 
upon  the  coffin,"  said  the  strident  voice  of 
the  factory  hand.  "  You've  never  heard  it "  — 


THE   SATYR'S   HEAD  161 

with  a  glance  at  her  own  black  gown  —  "  or 
maybe  you'd  be  different.  The  doctor  said  I 
mustn't  leave  the  bed,  but  I'd  have  come  if 
I'd  crawled  on  my  hands  and  knees.  I've 
read  how,  in  ancient  Egypt,  when  a  mother 
killed  her  child,  the  lifeless  body  was  strapped 
to  her.  I  don't  wonder  that  those  women  went 
mad." 

With  a  kind  of  passionate  tenderness,  she 
wrapped  the  coverings  about  her  work>  and 
thrusting  it  under  her  arm,  went  out  into  the 
cold  and  dark. 

When  the  result  of  the  competition  was 
made  known,  to  every  one's  surprise  the 
scholarship  was  awarded,  not  to  the  favorite 
student,  but  to  a  young  man  of  whom  no  one 
had  thought  in  that  connection. 


It  was  the  day  of  the  crowning  triumph  of 
Margaret  Lane's  life.  The  statue  that  she 
had  moulded  in  the  clay  which  is  the  life,  had 
looked  upon  in  the  plaster  which  is  the 
death,  was  to  be  unveiled  to-day  in  the 
marble  which  is  the  resurrection. 

The  throng  of  people,  distinguished  visi 
tors,  famous  artists  and  dignitaries  of  Church 
and  State,  had  come  together  to  do  honor  — 
not  to  her,  —  that  thought  held  no  share  in 
the  sweet,  glad  consciousness  of  acknowl- 


1 62  TALES 

edged  power,  —  but  to  her  work.  Speeches 
had  been  made,  poems  read,  and  now  loud 
huzzas  sounded  as  the  statue  gleamed  in  the 
sunlight  and  a  tall,  calm-faced  woman  arose 
from  her  place  at  the  governor's  side. 

The  twenty  years  that  had  passed  had 
brought  to  Margaret  Lane  the  crowning  glory 
of  a  strong  and  beautiful  womanhood.  When 
or  how  the  Voice  had  spoken  to  her  does  not 
matter.  Enough  that  she  had  listened,  and 
her  consecrated  life  witnessed  the  reality  of 
the  new  birth. 

Love  and  sympathy,  the  priceless  flowers 
of  the  spiritual  qualities  that  her  hard,  brill 
iant  girlhood  had  lacked,  were  fused  into  in 
tellectual  insight  and  the  results  of  a  masterly 
technique;  men  spoke  of  her  "genius;  "  but, 
impartial  as  ever  in  her  self-appraisal,  Mar 
garet  Lane  knew  that  hers  was  but  the  five 
fold  talent.  Genius  she  had  never  seen  but 
once. 

There  was  a  door  of  her  past  life  that  her 
present  self  never  opened.  In  her  studio  was 
a  box  containing  a  plaster  cast  sent  back  in 
curt  dismissal  twenty  years  ago. 

As  she  reseated  herself  in  the  carriage,  a 
woman,  who,  despite  the  commands  and 
buffetings  of  the  police,  had  thrust  and 
elbowed  her  way  through  the  surging  crowd, 
stood  almost  under  the  carriage  wheels,  and 


THE   SATYR'S    HEAD  163 

the  governor,  leaning  forward,  spoke  a  kindly 
word  of  warning.  It  was  a  woman  with  a  hard, 
mean  face,  whose  features,  set  as  though  in 
some  strange  arrested  development,  seemed 
to  offer  no  chance  of  appeal  to  a  finer  and 
truer  nature  that  some  congenial  atmosphere 
might  once  have  developed.  A  fetid  odor 
arose  from  her  untidy  clothes,  as  from  long 
contact  with  rank  leather.  For  a  second  the 
eyes  of  the  two  women  met,  and  before  those 
of  Margaret  Lane  was  unveiled  the  slow, 
hideous  process  of  a  soul's  dissolution. 

She  had  returned  to  her  studio.  Perhaps 
she  was  impelled  by  some  impulse  she  would 
not  question,  perhaps  it  was  her  whim  to  see 
from  the  critical  height  of  to-day,  the  work 
that  represented  the  joyous  anticipation  and 
bitter  disappointment  of  her  youth.  With 
haste  strangely  at  variance  with  her  usual 
calm  demeanor,  she  drew  the  nails  from  the 
box  containing  the  plaster  cast,  and  looked 
upon  that  which  her  hands  had  wrought 
twenty  years  ago. 

Had  it  been  that  the  impression  made  by 
Martha  Graves'  wonderful  art  upon  a  keenly 
susceptible  nature  had  influenced  her  own 
work  to  the  extent  of  unconscious  imitation? 
Was  it  that  she  had  looked  upon  a  monstrosity 
in  that  mystic  moment  of  supreme  sensitive 
ness,  when  her  own  conception  was  still  in 


1 64  TALES 

the  womb,  and  it  had  come  forth  stamped 
with  a  hideous  birthmark?  Or  did  this 
abortion  embody  a  truth  deeper  still,  more 
inscrutable? 

Dimly,  yet  overpoweringly,  the  revelation 
sank  into  her  soul. 

Upon  the  Christ  nature  within  herself  had 
her  hand  been  raised.  Her  sin  looked  at  her 
from  the  very  face  of  Him  who  had  become 
her  Master.  For  instead  of  the  inner  life 
that  had  illumined  and  glorified  the  physical 
beauty  and  commanding  intellect,  were 
stamped  envy,  hatred,  malice,  and  all  un- 
charitableness. 

From  the  face  of  the  Christ,  the  satyr 
mocked  and  leered. 


THE   PORTRAIT   BY   HUNT 

IT  was  the  last  day  of  the  Loan  Exhibition, 
held  in  the  "  sloyd  "  room  of  the  Indus 
trial  School.  If  the  thinly  clad,  apathetic 
throng,  of  varied  nationality,  may  have 
lingered  longer  ov^er  circus  posters  and  the 
flaring  announcements  of  the  latest  theatri 
cal  sensation  than  before  the  gigantic  Bier- 
stadt,  the  moonlight  of  De  Haas,  the  sunset 
of  Turner,  or  even  the  "  Burial  of  a  Mummy," 
which,  depicted  in  all  the  richness  and  state- 
liness  of  a  far-off  age,  yet  seemed  to  strike  a 
common  chord  of  humanity,  their  lack  of 
appreciation  was  merely  proof  of  the  timeli 
ness  of  the  present  exhibition.  "  To  raise 
the  masses  "  being  the  popular  cry,  it  was 
desirable  to  begin  at  the  right  end,  and  be 
sure  that  they  learnt,  betimes,  to  distinguish 
between  a  Bouguereau  and  a  Bridgman,  with 
which  worthy  intent,  two  ladies,  members  of 
the  committee,  whose  list  comprised  many 
well-known  names,  had  been  in  daily  attend 
ance. 


166  TALES 

It  was  drawing  near  the  hour  for  closing, 
and  the  only  visitor  now  was  the  old  woman 
employed  to  do  the  scrubbing  about  the 
building,  drawn  thither,  perhaps,  less  from 
love  of  art  than  desire  for  warmth,  for  the 
drizzling  rain  had  changed  to  a  driving  storm 
of  alternate  snow  and  sleet. 

Old  Betty  was  a  familiar  figure  to  visitors 
at  the  school  as  she  tugged  her  heavy  pail  of 
water  over  the  stairs  or  wrung  out  mopping- 
rags  with  hands  gnarled  and  distorted  with 
rheumatism  and  ceaseless  toil,  and  chapped 
and  cracked  with  suds  and  exposure.  The 
tattered,  dingy  fragment  of  a  shawl  was  tied 
about  her  head,  the  fringe  of  which  mingled 
with  the  elf-locks  of  coarse,  gray  hair  that 
streamed  about  her  wrinkled,  haggard  face. 
Her  calico  skirts,  pinned  up  over  a  short 
patched  petticoat,  of  long  ago  indeterminate 
color,  revealed  the  clumsy  stockings  and 
heavy  boots,  which  made  additional  misery 
for  the  swollen  feet. 

Mrs.  De  Long,  beautiful  in  her  serene, 
gracious  matronhood,  explained  the  pictures, 
one  by  one,  till  they  reached  the  gem  of  the 
collection,  in  its  magnificent  frame  of  Venetian 
scroll-work,  before  which  the  most  indifferent 
spectator  had  lingered. 

It  was  the  portrait  of  a  young  girl,  with 
shining  masses  of  brown  hair  drawn  to  a 


THE   PORTRAIT   BY   HUNT      167 

loose  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and 
frank,  sunny  eyes  with  a  smile  in  their  brown 
depths  that  matched  the  curves  of  the  lovely 
mouth.  It  was  a  happy,  fearless  face,  with 
the  look  of  one  who  feels  that  for  her  the 
world  holds  all  good  things.  Her  gown,  a 
pale  pink  brocade,  was  thrown  into  relief  by 
dark  crimson  draperies ;  one  slender,  white 
hand  drooped  with  the  weight  of  a  feather 
fan. 

The  broad  treatment,  the  delicate,  harmo 
nious  coloring,  the  tender,  poetic  feeling,  so 
rich,  yet  restrained  in  suggestiveness,  gave  it 
rank  as  the  artist's  best  work. 

Mrs.  De  Long  would  have  passed  with  the 
murmured  words,  "  A  portrait  by  Hunt,"  but 
old  Betty,  wearied  with  her  long  day's  work, 
had  sunk  upon  a  chair  near  by. 

"  Stay  and  rest,"  said  Mrs.  De  Long,  laying 
a  gentle,  kindly  hand  upon  the  old  woman's 
shoulder,  as  she  lingered  for  a  moment  before 
the  picture,  suddenly  thrown  into  strong 
relief  by  the  electric  light  over  the  corner 
grocery  opposite.  Then  returning  to  her 
friend,  in  the  low-voiced  talk  that  followed, 
the  old  woman's  presence  was  forgotten. 

"  You  cannot  think  how  startled  I  was  to 
see  that  picture  there,"  began  Mrs.  De  Long. 

"It  is  of  some  one  whom  you  know?" 
queried  Mrs.  Morris. 


1 68  TALES 

"  It  is  the  portrait  of  Elizabeth  Gair,"  was 
the  reply. 

"  I  wonder  that  others  have  not  recognized 
it,"  resumed  Mrs.  De  Long  after  a  lengthened 
silence,  which  her  friend  instinctively  forbore 
to  break.  "  But  all  the  Gairs  are  dead ; 
family  friends,  too,  are  dead  or  scattered,  and 
perhaps  if  any  one  did  recognize  the  picture, 
he  deemed  silence  best.  Elizabeth  Gair  was 
the  most  beautiful  creature  I  ever  saw.  The 
portrait  does  not  do  her  justice  —  no  art 
could.  It  hung  over  the  mantel-shelf  in  the 
Gair  drawing-room ;  and  then,  as  now, 
seemed  to  absorb  all  the  light  in  the  room. 
I  have  seen  many  a  visitor  pause  on  the 
threshold,  forgetful  even  of  greeting,  spell 
bound  by  the  vision  before  him.  Poor  Eliza 
beth  Gair !  "  and  the  womanly  voice  faltered. 

"  I  was  much  in  the  Gair  house.  Eliza 
beth's  sister  Nellie  was  my  most  intimate 
friend.  We  looked  up  to  Elizabeth  wjth  the 
enthusiasm  of  young  girls  for  one  a  few  years 
their  senior,  who  represents  to  them  all  that 
is  admirable  in  womanhood.  Her  party 
gowns,  her  dainty  shoes,  the  exquisite  stock 
ings  of  finest  silk,  the  gloves  that  looked 
almost  too  small  even  for  hands  that  had 
nothing  to  do  but  carry  flowers  or  toy  with  a 
fan  —  were  the  objects  of  our  wondering 
adoration.  We  loved  to  touch,  with  reverent 


THE   PORTRAIT   BY   HUNT      169 

finger-tips,  the  dainty  shimmering  things,  as 
they  lay  outspread  upon  the  bed,  in  readiness 
for  the  evening's  festivity.  She  was  so  good 
to  us !  We  would  sit  at  her  feet  for  hours, 
listening  to  stories  of  the  gay  world  in  which 
she  bore  her  part  so  admirably.  That  bright 
anticipation  of  the  pictured  face  is  only  a  feeble 
representation  of  what  beamed  from  hers. 
Her  beauty  was  the  smallest  part  of  her  charm. 
That  lay  in  the  graciousness,  the  lovableness 
of  her  personality ;  in  its  power  of  drawing 
out  the  best  that  there  was  in  every  one,  no- 
matter  how  deeply,  how  apparently  hope 
lessly,  it  lay  buried.  Never  have  I  known  a 
nature  in  which  the  rare  magnetism  of  good 
ness  was  so  potent  as  in  Elizabeth  Gair's. 

"  I  can  scarcely  speak  of  the  end,  even  at 
the  distance  of  nearly  thirty  years.  There 
came  a  time  when  her  name  was  on  every 
one's  lips.  But  not  —  not  as  it  had  been 
spoken. 

"  No  gossip  could  even  surmise  how  it 
happened.  To  have  married  Elizabeth  Gair 
would  have  seemed  the  realization  of  the 
proudest  dream  of  any  man. 

"  Her  picture  was  taken  from  the  wall. 
I  supposed,  till  to-day,  that  it  was  destroyed. 
Her  father  forbade  her  name  to  be  mentioned 
in  his  presence.  Nellie,  nearly  heart-broken, 
was  sent  away  to  school.  Contrary  to  all  the 


1 70  TALES 

conflicting  stories,  Elizabeth  did  not  leave 
her  father's  house.  A  room  was  fitted  up  for 
her  in  the  upper  story,  where,  with  locked 
doors  and  shut  and  shuttered  windows,  —  the 
only  glimpse  of  the  sky  a  narrow  rift  at  the 
top,  — Elizabeth  Gair  lived  for  five  long  years, 
without  speech  with  any  one,  allowed  only 
her  books  and  embroidery  for  companion 
ship. 

"Nellie  passed  her  vacations  either  at 
school  or  with  an  aunt  whose  home  was  in 
a  distant  city.  It  was  during  one  of  these 
visits  that  her  engagement  took  place.  An 
early  marriage  was  advisable,  for  the  girl 
was  practically  without  a  home.  Family 
pride,  however,  dictated  that  the  marriage 
should  take  place  from  her  father's  house. 

"  Nellie's  tears  and  pleadings  to  see  her 
sister  again  —  for  the  last  time  —  finally  pre 
vailed.  Just  before  the  bridal  party  set  out 
for  the  church,  Elizabeth  was  conducted  to 
the  drawing-room.  Did  the  sight  of  the 
beautiful  apartment,  whose  chief  ornament 
had  once  hung  in  that  blank  space  over  the 
mantel-shelf;  the  meeting  with  the  little  sister, 
grown  to  womanhood  in  the  five  years'  blank 
of  her  own  existence ;  the  thought  that  she 
had  forfeited  the  right  to  stand  by  Nellie's 
side,  the  loving,  beloved  elder  sister,  in  this, 
the  supreme  hour  of  the  girl's  life,  —  did  it 


THE   PORTRAIT   BY   HUNT      171 

all  bring  home  to  Elizabeth,  as  never  before, 
what  had  been  —  and  what  was? 

"  Nellie  never  told  me  what  passed  between 
them  at  that  interview. 

"  Soon  after  the  wedding,  the  announce 
ment  of  Elizabeth  Gair's  death  appeared  in 
the  daily  papers.  It  may  have  been  true. 
Ah,  how  often  I  have  prayed  that  it  was  true  ! 
The  house  was  closed  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gair 
went  abroad  ;  within  a  year  both  were  dead. 
Nellie's  death  had  preceded  theirs;  the 
property  went  to  a  distant  cousin  and  the 
household  furnishings  were  scattered  far  and 
wide. 

"  I  don't  like  to  speak  of  what  I  heard. 
Probably  there  was  not  a  word  of  truth  in 
it.  Elizabeth  Gair  was  dead.  But  in  one  of 
those  curious,  roundabout  ways  in  which 
tidings  that  affect  us  most  deeply  reach  us  in 
indifferent  speech,  I  heard  mention  of  a  ball 
given  annually  by  a  notorious  woman  for  the 
leaders  of  the  demi-monde,  and  frequented 
by  the  best  men  —  so  called  —  in  town. 
On  one  of  these  occasions,  the  gayest  of  the 
gay,  a  woman  with  the  light  of  utter  reckless 
ness  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  outdoing  all  the 
others  in  her  abandonment  of  every  good 
and  womanly  impulse,  was  she  who  had  once 
been  —  I  cannot  speak  the  name  in  such  con 
nection,  even  now.  Never  do  I  see  a  painted 


i;2  TALES 

creature  but  that  my  heart  beats  high.  Any 
where,  anyhow,  I  should  know  her  ;  no  matter 
how  changed  by  time  or  circumstances,  a 
voice  would  whisper,  '  It  is  she,'  and  I  should 
hear  its  accents,  however  low  and  indistinct. 

"  Never  were  there  gifts  so  utterly  wasted ; 
never  was  there  a  life  so  wrecked  beyond  re 
demption  as  Elizabeth  Gair's ! 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  have  told  you  the 
story,"  added  Mrs.  De  Long,  hurriedly.  "  It 
is  the  first  time  it  has  crossed  my  lips.  But 
I  felt  impelled  to  speak.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
influence  of  the  twilight,  the  storm,  or  the  un 
expected  sight  of  that  picture,  that  has  made 
me  feel  so  uneasy,  so  distraught." 

Whatever  the  undercurrent  of  their 
thoughts,  when  the  two  ladies  spoke  again  it 
was  upon  indifferent  subjects ;  of  the  Exhi 
bition,  of  matters  of  social  interest,  and, 
presently,  of  church  topics,  —  "  chapters " 
and  "  missions  "  and  "  board  meetings."  The 
old  woman,  lulled  perhaps  by  the  gentle 
murmur  of  their  voices  and  by  the  grateful 
warmth  of  the  room,  with  head  bowed  upon 
the  "  sloyd  "  bench  before  her,  had  appar 
ently  fallen  asleep. 

A  name  was  mentioned  —  that  of  the 
rector. 

"  They  say  he  will  leave  us,  if  he  receives 
the  call,"  said  Mrs.  De  Long.  "  Besides  be- 


THE   PORTRAIT   BY   HUNT      173 

ing  the  most  influential  church  in  the  diocese, 
it  is  the  open  road  to  the  bishopric." 

"  Personal  ambition  could  not  influence 
Mr.  Bache,"  responded  Mrs.  Morris,  with 
gentle  reproach.  "  But  if  he  should  accept, 
what  a  loss  he  would  be  to  us !  How  we 
should  miss  that  ineffable  smile,  the  pressure 
of  the  beautiful  white  hands,  that  look  out  of 
the  soulful  eyes  that  says  so  much  without 
utterance !  " 

"  Rev.  Francis  Bache  is  wise  in  confining 
his  intercourse  with  the  feminine  contingent 
of  his  pastoral  charge  to  that  dumb  eloquence 
which,  like  Goethe's  definition  of  a  Marchen, 
may  mean  everything,  or  nothing,"  answered 
Mrs.  De  Long,  dryly. 

"  My  dear,"  expostulated  Mrs.  Morris,  "  I 
am  sure  you  admire  and  reverence  our  rector 
as  much  as  any  one  —  are  as  deeply  in  spirit 
ual  sympathy  with  his  exalted  ideals.  You 
keep  Lent  most  rigorously,  go  to  all  the  early 
services,  and  never  miss  attendance  on  Sun 
days  and  feast  days." 

"  I  go  to  his  church,"  responded  Mrs.  De 
Long,  in  clear,  hard  tones,  "  because  his  ser 
mons  are  pleasing  to  the  intellect.  I  enjoy 
his  vivid  word-pictures  and  the  faculty  he 
has  of  seeming  to  single  me  out  from  all 
the  congregation ;  and  because,  toward  that 
peculiar  union  of  the  aesthetic  and  the  emo- 


174  TALES 

tional  in  which  lies  his  greatest  power,  I  con 
fess  to  being  in  the  mental  attitude  of  the 
small  boy  convicted  over  a  dime  novel :  '  I 
like  to  have  my  blood  curdled  !  '  But  when," 
continued  Mrs.  De  Long,  in  another  tone, 
"  in  those  moments  of  soul-hunger  that  come 
to  us  all,  I  have  cried  out  for  bread,  he  has 
given  me  but  a  stone.  What  do  I  care  that 
it  is  a  beautiful,  glittering  stone,  that  the 
world  calls  a  gem  !  " 

"You  have  known  him  a  long  while?" 
queried  Mrs.  Morris,  with  interest. 

"  I  knew  him  before  he  entered  the  pulpit; 
4  Francis  Bache  turn  minister  !  '  was  the  ex 
clamation.  That  the  gay  young  fellow,  the 
leader  in  every  social  frolic,  should  renounce 
the  world  was  as  sudden  and  miraculous  a 
conversion  as  St.  Paul's.  I  thought  so,  too, 
then.  I  have  changed  my  opinion  since. 
Ambition  was  the  key-note  of  Francis  Bache's 
character  then,  as  now.  The  personal  mag 
netism  that  drew  towards  him  so  irresistibly 
maid  and  matron,  the  charm  with  which  he 
invested  the  lightest  word,  making  you  feel 
that  it  was  addressed  to  you  alone,  —  although 
not  precisely  as  a  miserable  sinner, — the 
exquisite  modulation  of  tone  that  made  him 
the  most  admirable  Claude  Melnotte  the 
amateur  stage  has  ever  seen,  were  held  even 
then  as  the  tools  with  which,  presently,  he 


THE   PORTRAIT   BY   HUNT      175 

would  build  the  ladder  to  eminence.  Mean 
while,  that  union  of  the  emotional  and  aes 
thetic,  which  with  him  took  the  place  of  a 
coarser  passion,  should  have  its  fling,  never 
forgetting  that  one  false  step  would  ruin  the 
whole  lofty  scheme.  Why  has  he  never 
married?  is  often  asked.  Because  of  per 
sonal  aggrandizement.  Only  a  celibate  priest 
may  attain  eminence.  Even  in  appearance 
he  is  unchanged.  The  slight,  graceful  figure, 
the  smooth  face,  the  burning  dark  eyes, 
are  the  same  now  that  they  were  thirty  years 
ago." 

The  janitor  knocked  at  the  door  presently. 
It  was  the  hour  for  closing  the  building.  The 
ladies'  carriage  was  waiting.  "  The  old 
woman  is  still  there,"  hesitated  Mrs.  Morris. 

"  Let  the  poor  creature  remain ;  she  can 
do  no  harm,"  returned  Mrs.  De  Long,  shiv 
ering  as  she  drew  her  furred  wraps  about  her. 
"  She  is  familiar  with  the  building,  and  the 
janitor's  door  will  be  unlocked." 

The  room  was  left  to  the  darkness  —  save 
where  the  electric  light  focused  its  dazzling 
radiance  —  and  to  the  old  woman. 

She  raised  her  head  at  last,  and  gazed  at 
the  portrait  with  an  agony  that  could  not 
find  expression  in  tears ;  eyes  such  as  hers 
lose  their  power  of  weeping.  Her  hands 
were  outstretched,  as  in  pity  and  supplication. 


1 76  TALES 

"  I've  heard  your  story,  dear,"  she  whis 
pered,  "  and  every  word  fell  on  my  heart. 
There  was  no  one  in  all  the  world  to  hold  out 
a  hand  to  you,  not  even  when  you  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  up  at  the  stars  shining  in 
the  chink  of  sky  they  had  left  you,  and  cried 
in  your  heart,  —  for  your  lips  had  lost  their 
power  of  prayer,  —  '  Help  me  ! ' 

"  You  thought  He  did  not  hear,  for  no  help 
came.  There  was  no  way  out.  Friends, 
father,  mother,  the  little  sister  you  loved  so 
dearly,  even  He  to  whom  you  had  once  knelt 

—  all  had  forgotten  you. 

"  Oh,  to  think  of  that  night !  No  hour 
since  then  stands  out  in  the  very  blackness 
of  darkness  as  that  last  hour  in  the  drawing- 
room  !  — 

"  For  once  they  have  forgotten  you.  The 
door  is  unlocked  !  Hush  !  Down  the  back 
stairs  —  hark,  somebody  is  coming  —  quick 

—  the  area  door  — 

"  What  a  long  breath  you  drew  when  you 
stood  in  the  open  air  —  free  ! 

"  What  creatures  are  those  clutching  at  you 
from  out  the  darkness  !  Brush  them  away  — 
fight  them  — don't  be  dragged  back  to  prison 

—  they  are  gone  ! 

"  You  stood  upon  the  pavement  —  home 
less.  Ah,  homeless  ! 

"  Then  —  then  it  was  you  who  forgot  them 


THE   PORTRAIT   BY   HUNT      177 

—  father,  mother,  Nellie  —  even  Him  beyond 
whose  redemption  you  thought  you  had  flung 
yourself. 

"  There,  dear,  don't  cry.  I'm  sorry  for 
you.  I'll  help  you.  Come  home  with  me. 
Begin  again.  Think  of  your  father  —  he 
doesn't  care?  Your  mother  !  How  will  you 
meet  Nellie? 

"  Don't  stand  there  shivering  in  that  thin 
gown.  It's  a  beautiful  gown,  but  it  cost  you 
what  you  may  never  have  again.  You're  not 
the  first,  child,  I've  brought  home  out  of  the 
cold  and  wet,  and  given  a  good  hot  cup  of  tea 
and  made  comfortable  in  a  warm  room,  till 
by  and  by  the  despair  wasn't  quite  so  deep. 
You  knew  somebody  cared. 

"  Ah,  do  come,  dear.  You  shall  stay  with 
me  till  you  get  work. 

"The  tobacco  factory,  was  it?  Yes,  my 
child,  I  know  what  that  means.  The  air  is 
suffocating;  the  dust  gives  one  a  racking 
cough,  and  the  finger-tips  are  sore  and  bleed 
ing.  It  was  the  worst  of  trades,  too,  for  such 
as  you,  so  young  and  pretty !  Fine  ladies 
may  understand  life's  pretty  pictures.  What 
do  they  know  of  its  realities?  With  just  one 
word  you  could  change  it  all.  Why  not? 
Nobody  cared. 

"  But  somebody  does  care.  By  and  by  the 
other  pictures  will  fade  away  and  the  great 


i/8  TALES 

white  light  will  shine  upon  one  face  and 
form  — 

"You'll  come  home  with  me?  That's 
right." 

The  old  woman's  fingers  grasped  the  sharp, 
pointed  "  sloyd "  knife  that  lay  upon  the 
bench ;  pushing  the  chair  beneath  the  pict 
ure,  slowly  and  carefully  she  began  cutting 
the  canvas  from  the  frame. 

"  It  is  such  a  bitter  night  for  this  bare  neck 
—  and  those  thin  shoes  —  how  the  icy  pave 
ment  must  cut  your  feet ! 

"Take  my  shawl — no,  no,  it  does  not 
matter  about  me.  I've  lived  through  many 
a  night  of  biting  cold,  when  nobody  wanted 
any  scrubbing  done.  I  was  too  old  and  stiff 
for  anything  else,  and  I  could  not  beg. 

"  Let  me  fasten  the  shawl  for  you  —  There, 
dear,  so  —  come  !  " 


Rev.  Francis  Bache  was  seated  at  his  study 
table,  upon  which  lay  the  letter  containing 
the  formal  call  to  the  great  city  church. 
Little  as  he  was  accustomed  to  idleness,  for 
hours  he  had  sat  thus,  revelling  not  more  in 
the  realization  of  his  dreams  of  the  past  and 
in  visions  of  the  future,  than  in  the  mere  sense 
of  dominant  mental  power  —  that  intoxication 
of  the  intellect  compared  to  which  sensual 


THE   PORTRAIT   BY   HUNT      179 

enjoyments  are  as  a  child's  pleasure  in  a 
toy. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  "  A  man, 
on  some  urgent  errand,  wished  to  see  the 
rector,"  said  the  maid.  It  was  the  janitor  of 
the  Industrial  School.  From  his  confused 
and  excited  statement,  it  appeared  that  after 
attending  to  the  furnaces  for  the  night,  he 
had  made  his  customary  round  of  the  build 
ing.  On  reaching  the  "  sloyd "  room,  he 
beheld  the  portrait  by  Hunt,  with  the  canvas 
cut  from  the  frame. 

Mr.  Bache,  as  he  drew  on  his  overcoat, 
asked  the  names  of  the  ladies  who  had  been 
in  charge  of  the  exhibition  during  the  day. 

Mrs.  De  Long,  aghast  at  the  rector's  tidings, 
could  give  no  clue  to  the  perpetrator  of  the 
outrage.  She  was  certain  that  she  and  Mrs. 
Morris  were  the  last  persons  in  the  room,  and 
that  the  janitor  had  locked  the  door  of  the 
building  after  them.  "  Was  she  sure  of  her 
statement?  Might  not  some  one  have  crept 
in  unobserved  in  the  twilight?  "  Mrs.  De 
Long  repeated,  reiterated,  and  hesitated.  Mr. 
Bache  pressed  the  question. 

"  The  old  woman  who  did  the  scrubbing 
about  the  building  had  strayed  into  the  room 
at  the  last  hour"  — 

She  got  no  further ;  the  next  minute  Mr. 
Bache  and  the  janitor  were  on  the  pavement, 


i8o  TALES 

facing  the  quarter  where  old  Betty  lived. 
There,  even  in  the  storm  and  at  the  late 
hour,  women,  with  shawls  drawn  over  their 
heads,  were  loitering  along  the  muddy  side 
walk,  and  men  and  half-grown  boys  were 
smoking  and  talking  in  loud  voices  and  ribald 
language  on  the  street  corners. 

They  paused  before  a  miserable  tene 
ment-house.  The  rector  lifted  the  latch  of 
the  boltless,  lockless  door,  and  strode  ahead 
through  an  entry  in  which  the  tracks  of  many 
feet  had  converted  the  mud  into  a  slime  with 
which  the  very  walls  seemed  to  reek.  A 
heavy,  cold  moisture,  like  that  of  an  under 
ground  cave,  filled  the  air,  penetrating  even 
through  Mr.  Bache's  luxurious  overcoat. 
Matches  were  necessary  to  light  the  way  up 
three  flights  of  narrow,  winding  stairs ;  then, 
following  an  entry  that  plunged  into  the 
darkness  on  the  left,  the  two  men  reached 
the  room  where  old  Betty  lived. 

There  was  no  response  to  the  rector's  re 
peated  knock,  and  he  pushed  the  door  gently 
open.  The  janitor,  wondering  and  impatient, 
despite  his  profound  reverence,  would  have 
crowded  near,  but  Mr.  Bache  motioned  him 
back. 

"  Go,"  he  whispered  imperiously,  and 
stood  alone  upon  the  threshold. 

Before  him  was  a  fireless  room,  with  the 


THE   PORTRAIT   BY   HUNT      181 

ceiling  just  high  enough  to  escape  the  law's 
enactments  ;  patches  and  shreds  of  discolored 
paper  hung  from  the  dingy  walls ;  a  bed, 
whose  outlines  the  scanty  coverlids  could  not 
soften ;  a  rusty  stove,  with  a  tea-pot  and 
cracked  tea-cup  upon  it ;  a  rickety  table,  and 
two  battered  wooden  chairs,  comprised  the 
furniture. 

Opposite,  upon  the  mantel-shelf,  was  the 
object  that  had  riveted  the  rector's  gaze, — 
the  portrait  by  Hunt.  Again,  the  picture 
filled  the  room. 

Before  it  crouched  old  Betty,  talking  in  dis 
jointed  phrases,  while  her  ringers  plucked 
aimlessly  at  the  frozen  folds  of  her  gown. 

"  She  called  you  '  a  painted  creature,'  and 
left  you  to  the  cold  and  dark.  But  One  who 
was  writing  on  the  ground  whispered,  'Never 
are  there  gifts  so  utterly  wasted  but  that,  with 
my  help,  they  may  still  be  used  in  my  ser 
vice  ;  never  was  there  a  life  that  was  wrecked 
beyond  my  redemption.' 

"  It's  been  —  such  —  a  terrible  dream. 
But  it's  over  now.  How  did  it  begin?  I  re 
member  —  when  they  took  the  portrait  from 
the  wall. 

"  There,  Nellie  dear,  don't  cry.  You  have 
your  own  life  to  live,  child,  and  I  must  not  be 
a  part  of  it,  even  in  memory.  You  must  not 
let  the  shadow  of  my  life  fall  upon  yours. 


1 82  TALES 

You  have  another  to  live  for.  Hark !  he  is 
calling  you  —  loosen  your  arms,  dear  — 

"  No,  no,  it's  all  a  dream  — 

"There  is  the  portrait,  just  as  it  always 
was  — 

"  Oh,  how  the  sight  of  that  blank  wall 
pierced  my  heart !  Why  did  they  take  the 
picture  away  ?  I  wish  I  could  get  that  dream 
out  of  my  head. 

"Who — brought  —  the  picture  back? 

"  I  wish  —  Francis  —  would  come. 

"  I  wonder  —  what  makes  —  me  —  so  tired 
to-night  ?  —  Why  —  doesn't  —  Francis  — 
come  ! 

"  Francis  !  —  I  knew  you  would  come.  I 
have  waited  —  so  —  long  —  for  you,  dear. 
Let  me  look  at  you — so  —  so. 

"It  —  is  good — to  rest  —  my  head  once 
more  upon  your  shoulder !  " 

"  Do  you  remember  that  evening  we  met, 
Francis?  I  wore  the  pink  gown  —  the  one 
in  the  picture  —  and  you  said  I  was  — 
'  adorable.'  It  was  when  we  stood  —  by  the 
door  —  after  the  waltz  —  and  you  —  were 
fanning  me.  I  always  liked  that  feather  fan, 
because  your  hand  had  held  it. 

"  I  laughed  at  you,  then,  so  many  had 
called  me  '  adorable.'  But  that  night  I  lay 
awake  and  said  the  word  over  and  over  to 
myself.  It  was  a  new  word  —  one  you  had 


THE   PORTRAIT   BY   HUNT      183 

coined  —  never  spoken  to  another.  Bend 
your  head  —  I  want  to  whisper.  Tell  me 
—  again,  I  am  adorable  ! 

"Francis  —  you  who  are  so  true — you 
will  —  tell  —  me  —  the  truth. 

' '  Who  — brought  —  the — picture — back  ? ' ' 

"Why  —  do  —  you  —  turn  away  — 
your  face? 

"Was  it  I  —  I  —  who  bore  it— all — the 
long,  hard  way,  back  — back  to  its  place  — 
in  my  father's  mansion?" 

It  was  long  after  midnight  when  Mr.  Bache 
sat  again  at  his  study  table.  For  years  after, 
his  people  spoke  of  that  last  sermon.  The 
spare,  refined  gestures,  the  eloquent  pauses, 
the  peculiar  directness  with  which  he  seemed 
to  address  each  individual  in  the  great  congre 
gation  — with  all  those  charms  they  were  famil 
iar.  But  there  was  something  to-day  behind 
voice  and  manner  that  they  felt  for  the  first 
time  —  something  which  seemed  to  answer  an 
unvoiced  cry  from  their  inmost  natures. 

Great  was  the  surprise  when  it  was  known 
that  Mr.  Bache  had  declined  the  call  he  had 
received  ;  greater  still  when  it  was  heard  that 
he  had  left  the  pulpit  forever  and  would 
merge  his  individuality  in  that  of  a  brother 
hood  whose  work  lay  in  the  slums  of  a  dis 
tant  city. 


1 84  TALES 

"  It  was  his  noble  spirit  of  self-sacrifice," 
said  Mrs.  Morris. 

"  Something  lay  behind  it,"  thought  Mrs. 
De  Long,  and  dwelt  again  on  those  burning 
words,  familiar,  yet  elusive,  with  which  that 
last  wonderful  sermon  had  closed. 

"Even  in  that  saddest  failure,  which  the 
world  mocks  by  calling  success,  never  are 
there  gifts  so  utterly  wasted  but  that,  with 
His  help,  they  may  still  be  used  in  His  ser 
vice  ;  never  was  there  a  life  that  was  wrecked 
beyond  His  redemption  !  " 


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OCTOBER  1896  BY  THE  ROCKWELL  AND 
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